The Heat Is On...

As a rule by Wednesday I have concocted some sort of post on my walk to work, and look forward to the weekend to 'get it down'. However as you have become aware, this in recent weeks has not been the case. Perhaps it is the flow of tears and snot as I wade through Pollen (hooray not poo), which is killing the creative vibe. Or perhaps like my game of bowls, my skills are only there when I am blissfully unaware, as soon as I become fixated on any ability to strike, poof, the strikes dry up! I guess I could try walking to work blindfolded or coax myself into a zen like state of unawareness but I have an irrational fear of loosing my life on the main road.

This blog began life with The Worst Christmas Fair in the World, and swiftly became a carthartic half hour, a safe haven to rant without harm to myself or others. It is just that my own therapy is too good. Of late I have passed many South Leeds atrocities and not even blinked, instead a few butterflies skip by, a little cherry blossom floats down and I skip my way through the filth with a smile on my face. I am afraid goodness is just not funny, and happiness is a real humour killer.

Walking on Broken Glass

In a past post I committed to the blogosphere a new found ability to stick at things. Right now I am growing a little concerned, last week I posted late and this week, not only am I late I cheated considerably. I am undeniably in that quagmire that blogger's term writers block.

Whilst fighting the good fight in order to fulfil my posting duties, I am making myself more commitments, ones that kept to myself I could 'forget'.Come the month of July you will see me take this sagging, birth torn body out to lollop the 3 peaks. The Husband is right, I can't keep a secret.

Yesterday I began my training: i-pod, rucksack and I pounded the streets of South Leeds, grimacing inanely as I listened to Rage Against the Machine. I am quite pleased with my first session. Next time I will pound the Streets with the baby's pushchair filled with bricks.... Did I say I was training for the 3 peaks, I meant to say I was training to take over the post of Village Idiot. Anyway for motivational purposes I have posted a before picture, just so we'll all be able to see how far I have to go.

The Green Mile

Sunday is the day where I bring my ramblings closer to home and hopefully share a little of the apple pie existence that is ours. Words from our beautiful homestead nestled in a picturesque village, in the province of South Leeds. [1]

In our village it is custom to use resources carefully, for example by sharing recycling bins. Those who live in streets without, feel it is their duty to share without complaint, or failing that use the community based recycling facilities known affectionately amongst villagers as Da Street.

Our village council ensure the needs of those applying for a recycling bin are genuine by making them ask for approximately 3 years and firstly supplying applicants with a 'test bin'. This is duly uncollected and returned.

It is policy to then wait for a prolonged period and to offer applicants a second recycling bin, ensuring that collection is guaranteed. To ensure no misuse of recycling facilities it is a further requirement to fill appropriately, leave correctly and then bring back on to property, uncollected, at least twice. The village council look at each case individually and deem collection necessary based on the frequency and vehemency of further phone calls from applicant.



[1] The author of this blog will not take responsibility for any foreign travel to the province of South Leeds based on reading of this here post.

C is for Knife attack

We have just come back from the most unchristmassey Christmas Fair ever. I feel like I have lost two hours of my life which are never to be recovered. I smelt a rat as soon as I walked through the doors, greeted by posters advertising the 'S factor', some nonsense about science demonstrations, Christmas and Science I suppose it could be feasible. No it wasn't.

If Christmas is about sticking a few tables around the edge of a cold business like hall without so much of a sneeze of tinsel, this fair had it. If Christmas is about six stalls, one of which consisted of graphic images of a mangled arm after a knife attack, this fair had it. We could talk at length at what it didn't have, instead close your eyes imagine your Christmas Fairs of yesterday year, then give yourself a big corporate, half arsed, second rate slap in your face and that's more like what we got!