Friday 13th - What could possibly go wrong?

I should beware what I type onto LJ; I wasn’t expecting the comparative flood of comment on yesterday’s post. I’m not sure that I might not have made my point though, partially at least, since I clearly didn’t quite communicate what I meant when I wrote it.

I didn’t mean that I don’t think that I can’t write – I think I can to a reasonable level of quality, when the mood is right. What I meant was simply that it rarely comes easily, and having a story to tell doesn’t always translate into the written word. Still, it was nice being told that people like to read my prose, even if I never quite understand why.

You wouldn’t believe the times I’ve expected comments to get none, and then contrast that with the throwaway line or observation that springs double figure responses (I have yet to come up with anything that compels people to respond in triple figures. Probably just as well).

Once again, I am using this journal as an effort displacement exercise. I have a number of things to do today, but dull doesn’t do them justice. Let’s see:

boring
deadly
dreary
dry
dull
endless
lack-lustre
lifeless
mind-numbing
monotonous
tedious
uninteresting

None of them quite convey the meaning I’m after.

Suggestions on a post card. Winners will be notified by post. No purchase necessary.

Friday 13th - What could possibly go wrong?

I should beware what I type onto LJ; I wasn’t expecting the comparative flood of comment on yesterday’s post. I’m not sure that I might not have made my point though, partially at least, since I clearly didn’t quite communicate what I meant when I wrote it.

I didn’t mean that I don’t think that I can’t write – I think I can to a reasonable level of quality, when the mood is right. What I meant was simply that it rarely comes easily, and having a story to tell doesn’t always translate into the written word. Still, it was nice being told that people like to read my prose, even if I never quite understand why.

You wouldn’t believe the times I’ve expected comments to get none, and then contrast that with the throwaway line or observation that springs double figure responses (I have yet to come up with anything that compels people to respond in triple figures. Probably just as well).

Once again, I am using this journal as an effort displacement exercise. I have a number of things to do today, but dull doesn’t do them justice. Let’s see:

boring
deadly
dreary
dry
dull
endless
lack-lustre
lifeless
mind-numbing
monotonous
tedious
uninteresting

None of them quite convey the meaning I’m after.

Suggestions on a post card. Winners will be notified by post. No purchase necessary.

...and when I find my trousers, I'll find my feet...

Friday afternoon, after 4pm: the dog end of the week. There are several parts of the working week that creak along almost interminably, but I don’t think there is another with quite the rich texture and boredom quotient of the slow moving minutes between four and five-thirty pm on a Friday. I accept that my perceptions may be skewed by the fact that I am bored out of my gourd, and that it is during the time slot in question, but I think it’s true. It’s the combination of tiredness, being in the office and looking forward to the imminent weekend.

Ah, me.

I’m off to Marlow for the weekend, and after the experience of the last trip (the first post move), I have brung a bag to work with me and will be going directly from the office. Up to Whetstone followed by back down into town and across the Marylebone is a time consuming faff and is to be discouraged.

I understand that a bunch of friends are off to see Lulu¹ at the English National Opera, tonight. Good luck; the reviews have been uniformly awful, and this was confirmed by DT who saw it on Tuesday, and who is trying to think of ways of getting out of seeing it a second time tonight. It’s something when ‘free’ is too expensive, isn’t it?

It’s very grey outside. I confidently expect it to piss down around the time I launch myself on the crowds heading for the Tube at Victoria. Looks windy, too: the drab excuses for trees I can see from the office window are somewhat agitated.

ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, my Network Walkman has just kicked up a Sandy Denny and the Strawbs song, Two Weeks Last Summer for my enjoyment. Oh, happy day.

You know it’s Friday 13th when that’s as good as it gets.



¹ Th’ opera, based upon Frank Wedekind’s play. Not the short Scottish chanteuse of the same name.

...and when I find my trousers, I'll find my feet...

Friday afternoon, after 4pm: the dog end of the week. There are several parts of the working week that creak along almost interminably, but I don’t think there is another with quite the rich texture and boredom quotient of the slow moving minutes between four and five-thirty pm on a Friday. I accept that my perceptions may be skewed by the fact that I am bored out of my gourd, and that it is during the time slot in question, but I think it’s true. It’s the combination of tiredness, being in the office and looking forward to the imminent weekend.

Ah, me.

I’m off to Marlow for the weekend, and after the experience of the last trip (the first post move), I have brung a bag to work with me and will be going directly from the office. Up to Whetstone followed by back down into town and across the Marylebone is a time consuming faff and is to be discouraged.

I understand that a bunch of friends are off to see Lulu¹ at the English National Opera, tonight. Good luck; the reviews have been uniformly awful, and this was confirmed by DT who saw it on Tuesday, and who is trying to think of ways of getting out of seeing it a second time tonight. It’s something when ‘free’ is too expensive, isn’t it?

It’s very grey outside. I confidently expect it to piss down around the time I launch myself on the crowds heading for the Tube at Victoria. Looks windy, too: the drab excuses for trees I can see from the office window are somewhat agitated.

ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, my Network Walkman has just kicked up a Sandy Denny and the Strawbs song, Two Weeks Last Summer for my enjoyment. Oh, happy day.

You know it’s Friday 13th when that’s as good as it gets.



¹ Th’ opera, based upon Frank Wedekind’s play. Not the short Scottish chanteuse of the same name.