The importance of punctuation

I can't remember the context now, but last week at the end of an email exchange with Dr Furtle, I received an email that simply said, "Roger that Pumpkin".

I took this to be an acknowledgement of whatever suggestion I had made to My Girl in the earlier part of the conversation. It occurred to us sometime later though, that there should have been a strategically placed comma in the sentence and that a more literally minded bloke may have thought that he was being enjoined to indulge in something that could easily cause severe equine enstartlement.

An eyebrow was arched; and rightly so, I feel.

The importance of punctuation

I can't remember the context now, but last week at the end of an email exchange with Dr Furtle, I received an email that simply said, "Roger that Pumpkin".

I took this to be an acknowledgement of whatever suggestion I had made to My Girl in the earlier part of the conversation. It occurred to us sometime later though, that there should have been a strategically placed comma in the sentence and that a more literally minded bloke may have thought that he was being enjoined to indulge in something that could easily cause severe equine enstartlement.

An eyebrow was arched; and rightly so, I feel.

Vitamins

Long time members of my friends list will remember that back in my Clapham days I made soup. Lots of soup. Sturdy, vegetable soup; stuff that went down semi liquid and which transformed into breeze blocks.

A couple of years ago, I had another brief flurry of soup-making. I had forgotten this, but it is recorded here in this journal under the tag 'soup' in a way that the original occurrences are not. That is not to say that they are not recorded, simply that they are not tagged and that I cannot be bothered to look back across the mists of time to identify them. They too were sturdy soups, soups of character that had they legs, would have taken the cross and travelled the world extolling the virtues of roughage and good, honest living. They would have brooked no argument and cowed continents.

Today, I have made another.

Furtle and I have decided that we should attempt to get, if not fit, at least fitter. Lose some weight, pump iron, take something that is referred to by acolytes as exercise. That sort of thing. My motivations of course are entirely the wrong way around. Despite being a lardy boy with a not insignificant number of stones in weight, who should lose maybe a third of them simply to stave off a heart attack and perhaps even diabetes, I really wish simply to button up my leather jacket over a jumper if it gets cold. Being able to button up my leather jacket without the jumper would do, to be honest.

To this end, Furtle has devised an exercise and food plan - it is most definitely not a diet - that we intend to start implementing from tomorrow.

For my part, I have made the soup. There is enough for several days, I venture to think. Maybe longer. It is in the stockpot downstairs as I type. Cooling off and allowing the pearl barley to expand. I can hear it giggling and muttering to itself. Life has come full circle.

Vitamins

Long time members of my friends list will remember that back in my Clapham days I made soup. Lots of soup. Sturdy, vegetable soup; stuff that went down semi liquid and which transformed into breeze blocks.

A couple of years ago, I had another brief flurry of soup-making. I had forgotten this, but it is recorded here in this journal under the tag 'soup' in a way that the original occurrences are not. That is not to say that they are not recorded, simply that they are not tagged and that I cannot be bothered to look back across the mists of time to identify them. They too were sturdy soups, soups of character that had they legs, would have taken the cross and travelled the world extolling the virtues of roughage and good, honest living. They would have brooked no argument and cowed continents.

Today, I have made another.

Furtle and I have decided that we should attempt to get, if not fit, at least fitter. Lose some weight, pump iron, take something that is referred to by acolytes as exercise. That sort of thing. My motivations of course are entirely the wrong way around. Despite being a lardy boy with a not insignificant number of stones in weight, who should lose maybe a third of them simply to stave off a heart attack and perhaps even diabetes, I really wish simply to button up my leather jacket over a jumper if it gets cold. Being able to button up my leather jacket without the jumper would do, to be honest.

To this end, Furtle has devised an exercise and food plan - it is most definitely not a diet - that we intend to start implementing from tomorrow.

For my part, I have made the soup. There is enough for several days, I venture to think. Maybe longer. It is in the stockpot downstairs as I type. Cooling off and allowing the pearl barley to expand. I can hear it giggling and muttering to itself. Life has come full circle.