I am sorry. I have been rubbish at updating our escapades recently. But I can’t give up entirely as this blog is the only real diary I write now, and without it, I won’t remember anything in the future, such is the state of my memory at the moment.
Yes, I used to write a daily entry, with an actual pencil. From the age of about ten, I would jot down my ponderings in a Snoopy Week-to-View, or an Edwardian Lady handbag diary – or whatever I had been fortunate enough to receive for Christmas that year. In it, I’d note down, for example, just how many hours of revision I had managed that day, what films I had watched on television (complete with a rating) and what “my worry” was at the time. The latter ranged from: would I win the end of year 100M race at sports day that year? Did my aunt’s dog make me pregnant when it dry-humped my leg? Did I need my boobs cut off, and might I have AIDS?
I kid you not.
Anyway… moving on. This blog is now my dumping ground, and shall continue to be so. It does rather keep me sane, even though we are no longer living in The Shed. There is still a long way to go with The Funny Little Bungalow – so much so that we dare not peel the protective film from the (now very much used) kitchen cupboards. I think I may have to do that soon though, or I will keep putting it off until 2035, when we sell the house.
So I will try harder! My excuses for being crap recently are many and varied – and mostly pathetic. So I will not go there. Instead, I will whet your appetite with the gems of posts to come, which range from: my recent failed attempts at job-hunting and my poor interview technique, Boy Seymour’s impending muscle biopsy, my ongoing double life as a nun in Saltzburg, The Seymour Guinea Pig Population Explosion, Ye Olde Funny Little Bungalow Furniture Shoppe and Junke Yarde, my attempts at getting our old and dilapidated furniture into the correct position and Big Seymour’s frustration therewith, a trip back in time to 1969, yesterday’s disastrous trip to Specsavers and the resulting risk that Father Christmas just might not come tonight, The Shed’s rebirth and rejuvenation as an Airbnb des res and of course, Christmas.
If I can pull my finger out, I should have enough material to bore you with until Easter, when, no doubt, there will be plenty more drama to update you on.
Happy Christmas, friends! May you be safe and warm and full of pudding. x
0 Comments