Hmmm. When I view my previous post, for me on my Mac I have a funny little A sign which I cannot recreate unless I type a 'pound' symbol: £. Like so.
Headfuck.
£££££££££
I cannot make this go away, I've tried.
This is actually quite interesting, since it doesn't happen to me anywhere else but on this particular blog.
Is it there if you look at this on a PC?
Answers on a postcard please...
Thursday, April 29, 2004
What I should have been doing:
Ironing. Or painting the bathroom. Or painting the stairs. Or sewing book bags for school.
What I did:
Went to B&Q.
What I ostensibly went to B&Q for:
1 cold chisel.
What I actually ended up buying at B&Q, due to the black-money-hole that exists there:
1 cold chisel @ £4.98 (for taking the bathroom tiles off)
1 tub of plaster @ £9.59 (for plastering where the tiles have been)
1 plaster trowel @ £6.48 (for applying said plaster)
1 strip knife @ £2.48 (it's just useful)
1 sanding block also @ £2.48 (also useful)
1 large chisel @ £5.98 (just in case the cold chisel isn't suitable for everywhere)
1 box of lawn feed @ £8.28 (my lawn needs it)
1 box of Lobelia plants, containing 8 plants @ £1.97 (well they're lovely, a beautiful blue colour)
1 box of Lobelia plants, containing 8 plants @ £0.50 (cheap, due to general plant lethargy)
1 petrol lawnmower @ £78.69 (well mine is broken and I can't keep borrowing my Mum's and I'll have to buy one eventually, and anyway B&Q were doing 20% off everything, last day today).
Total Overspend:
£116.45
Damn.
Ironing. Or painting the bathroom. Or painting the stairs. Or sewing book bags for school.
What I did:
Went to B&Q.
What I ostensibly went to B&Q for:
1 cold chisel.
What I actually ended up buying at B&Q, due to the black-money-hole that exists there:
1 cold chisel @ £4.98 (for taking the bathroom tiles off)
1 tub of plaster @ £9.59 (for plastering where the tiles have been)
1 plaster trowel @ £6.48 (for applying said plaster)
1 strip knife @ £2.48 (it's just useful)
1 sanding block also @ £2.48 (also useful)
1 large chisel @ £5.98 (just in case the cold chisel isn't suitable for everywhere)
1 box of lawn feed @ £8.28 (my lawn needs it)
1 box of Lobelia plants, containing 8 plants @ £1.97 (well they're lovely, a beautiful blue colour)
1 box of Lobelia plants, containing 8 plants @ £0.50 (cheap, due to general plant lethargy)
1 petrol lawnmower @ £78.69 (well mine is broken and I can't keep borrowing my Mum's and I'll have to buy one eventually, and anyway B&Q were doing 20% off everything, last day today).
Total Overspend:
£116.45
Damn.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
The forest is full of bluebells just at the moment, and it's stunning. It looks like fairyland and it smells absolutely beautiful.
And today my Mum brought me a hanging basket she's planted up for me ready for the Summer, and a baby Fuschia plant for my garden and a bunch of flowers that has a bright pink Gerbera in it which looks so daftly cheery you can't fail to smile when you look at it.
Plants do good things to me.
And today my Mum brought me a hanging basket she's planted up for me ready for the Summer, and a baby Fuschia plant for my garden and a bunch of flowers that has a bright pink Gerbera in it which looks so daftly cheery you can't fail to smile when you look at it.
Plants do good things to me.
Monday, April 26, 2004
So it's the year anniversary of your Father's death, it's a year to the day that you watched him drugged to the hilt, a year to the day that they stuffed him so full of chemicals that he was unaware of you, and you know they needed to do it because they had to in order to stop him thashing around in bed, but it didn't work because he still does it and he looks so uncomfortable and you kind of wish they hadn't if it wasn't going to make any difference, because then, at least, at least you would have got to say good-bye.
And so you watch as your father flails at the sheets in his stupor, and you watch as that composed and proud and clever man waves his unconsious arms around, and you feel so bad because he's naked in that hospital bed, just like you should be when you're about to die, but everytime he moves he shifts the covers down further and you're scared, so scared that they're going to go too low and you just want to run away, run far way. And you don't want to touch him because he doesn't look like your Dad anymore, and he doesn't feel like your Dad anymore, he just looks like some sad, ill stupid person, dribbling in the bed and making horrible breathing noises, and you can see it physically is him, but to you it isn't him, it's not your amazing, funny, witty, sarcastic Dad lying there, it's the epitome of someone dying, the absolute shell of him.
And you hate yourself.
You know that if you don't touch him you'll hate yourself forever, never be able to forgive yourself, but all you want to do is get back the Dad you know, the one you love who can fix up showers and build extensions and who regularly told you you were funny and lovely, and who took reallybeautiful photographs and who bought you a book on grammar in order to stop you ringing up everyday with questions about punctuation.
And who could do anything. Anything.
So you touch him. You hold his hand.
And you don't know where the words come from but all of a sudden you say, "Dad, I love you, but it's time to go now. You can go now. You need to stop fighting."
And then he squeezes your hand.
He actually squeezes your hand, and you know you haven't imagined it, it's not that you were wishing for it, because you weren't. You didn't even know it was a possibility. You know that he has heard you, and that you have told him he can let go and all of a sudden you realise what a potentially horrifying mistake you have made and suddenly all you want to do is shout:
"Don'tgonotyetpleasestayIloveyouIneedyoudon'tgoDadpleasestayohIloveyouohIneedyouyou'remyDadohGodohGodohGod."
But you can't because you have to BE BRAVE, so you kiss his warm head for the last time, and you leave the room and you tell the hospice that you'd like to leave now, and, no you don't want to be there for when he dies, because quite frankly, you think you might die too if you stay there and watch it.
And you go home, and you wait.
And then he dies, a few hours later.
****
And then a year later, when it's all over with, and you've scattered his ashes, and grieved, and been through therapy, you think, well, it's a year now. Get on with it, move forward. So yeah, there's no-one to fix your shower, and yeah, everytime you see his picture in a magazine it's going to hurt, but you're a BIG GIRL now.
Grow up, get over it and move on. I mean, everybody's father dies eventually, right? This is not specific or unusual, you are not so special.
So you pick some flowers to put by the Yew Tree. You pick daffodils, because you don't want to put down bought flowers, and daffodils are available and anyway the ones you pick are tiny, beautifully scented, and well just really, really Spring. And also it makes you laugh, because you've always had a problem with daffodils.
So you like the contrast.
So you pick them, and you wrap them in wet kitchen towel and they're OK. And then you have lunch with your family and friends, a lunch in the pub that you went to the day after the funeral, the pub where it is always sunny when you need it to be. And it is sunny. It's wonderful. It's so sunny that you sit there for ages, much longer than you intended and when you get back to the car the daffodils on the back seat are wilted and dying.
And you feel so sad.
And you say, "Well, now. I can't give wilted daffodils to Dad. Can I? Can I?" And you look around and everyone there appears to think you can, and that Dad would understand, and in fact they all laugh at what he would say about that.
So you think, "OK," and you drive to the gate, the nearest gate to the tree. But your brother-in-law seems to think he knows better and insists it's the wrong gate and even though you've been there four times and he's only been once you decide to let him go the way he wants just because it's easier than a row, and you pick up the dying/dead daffodils and you walk through the woods along a really muddy path. And you know it's the wrong path, because the path you should have gone down has hardcore and bricks underneath it so it's much less muddy and it's also straight. And this one isn't straight. At all.
And also there's the fact that your stepmum who lives right next to the wood and therefore really, truly, knows, well she told you to be sure to take the first gate and not the second but it's not the day for assertiveness or rowing so you let it ride and you go the wrong way even though you know you are going the wrong way because it's easier to do that than start a fight about it...
And so you're there, holding your badly dying/dead daffodils and you step oddly in the mud and you fall. You fall right over.
You fall like a cartoon character, a proper banana skin slip, and you land with your arse in the mud and you sit there wet and muddy, mud on your trousers, up your back, all over your legs, your hands, your face, your everything, and you laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh.
And you look and you see that everyone is laughing, because it really is funny, and none of us can stop. It's just so fitting that this should happen.
And then you look and you see that not only are the dead and dying daffodills dead and dying, they're also spattered all over with thick brown globs of mud.
And you think, "How funny. How sad." You're laughing, but it could so easily turn into hysterical sobbing.
And the flowers you end up placing by your father's tree, the big tall, fully-grown been-there-for-a-hundred-years Yew Tree that he used to sit under most every day, the tree that represents 'him' to you, well the flowers you put there are muddy, wet, wilted, rubbish, dying, dead daffodils.
Muddy. Wet. Wilted. Rubbish. Dying. Dead.
He would have absolutely pissed himself.
And so you watch as your father flails at the sheets in his stupor, and you watch as that composed and proud and clever man waves his unconsious arms around, and you feel so bad because he's naked in that hospital bed, just like you should be when you're about to die, but everytime he moves he shifts the covers down further and you're scared, so scared that they're going to go too low and you just want to run away, run far way. And you don't want to touch him because he doesn't look like your Dad anymore, and he doesn't feel like your Dad anymore, he just looks like some sad, ill stupid person, dribbling in the bed and making horrible breathing noises, and you can see it physically is him, but to you it isn't him, it's not your amazing, funny, witty, sarcastic Dad lying there, it's the epitome of someone dying, the absolute shell of him.
And you hate yourself.
You know that if you don't touch him you'll hate yourself forever, never be able to forgive yourself, but all you want to do is get back the Dad you know, the one you love who can fix up showers and build extensions and who regularly told you you were funny and lovely, and who took reallybeautiful photographs and who bought you a book on grammar in order to stop you ringing up everyday with questions about punctuation.
And who could do anything. Anything.
So you touch him. You hold his hand.
And you don't know where the words come from but all of a sudden you say, "Dad, I love you, but it's time to go now. You can go now. You need to stop fighting."
And then he squeezes your hand.
He actually squeezes your hand, and you know you haven't imagined it, it's not that you were wishing for it, because you weren't. You didn't even know it was a possibility. You know that he has heard you, and that you have told him he can let go and all of a sudden you realise what a potentially horrifying mistake you have made and suddenly all you want to do is shout:
"Don'tgonotyetpleasestayIloveyouIneedyoudon'tgoDadpleasestayohIloveyouohIneedyouyou'remyDadohGodohGodohGod."
But you can't because you have to BE BRAVE, so you kiss his warm head for the last time, and you leave the room and you tell the hospice that you'd like to leave now, and, no you don't want to be there for when he dies, because quite frankly, you think you might die too if you stay there and watch it.
And you go home, and you wait.
And then he dies, a few hours later.
****
And then a year later, when it's all over with, and you've scattered his ashes, and grieved, and been through therapy, you think, well, it's a year now. Get on with it, move forward. So yeah, there's no-one to fix your shower, and yeah, everytime you see his picture in a magazine it's going to hurt, but you're a BIG GIRL now.
Grow up, get over it and move on. I mean, everybody's father dies eventually, right? This is not specific or unusual, you are not so special.
So you pick some flowers to put by the Yew Tree. You pick daffodils, because you don't want to put down bought flowers, and daffodils are available and anyway the ones you pick are tiny, beautifully scented, and well just really, really Spring. And also it makes you laugh, because you've always had a problem with daffodils.
So you like the contrast.
So you pick them, and you wrap them in wet kitchen towel and they're OK. And then you have lunch with your family and friends, a lunch in the pub that you went to the day after the funeral, the pub where it is always sunny when you need it to be. And it is sunny. It's wonderful. It's so sunny that you sit there for ages, much longer than you intended and when you get back to the car the daffodils on the back seat are wilted and dying.
And you feel so sad.
And you say, "Well, now. I can't give wilted daffodils to Dad. Can I? Can I?" And you look around and everyone there appears to think you can, and that Dad would understand, and in fact they all laugh at what he would say about that.
So you think, "OK," and you drive to the gate, the nearest gate to the tree. But your brother-in-law seems to think he knows better and insists it's the wrong gate and even though you've been there four times and he's only been once you decide to let him go the way he wants just because it's easier than a row, and you pick up the dying/dead daffodils and you walk through the woods along a really muddy path. And you know it's the wrong path, because the path you should have gone down has hardcore and bricks underneath it so it's much less muddy and it's also straight. And this one isn't straight. At all.
And also there's the fact that your stepmum who lives right next to the wood and therefore really, truly, knows, well she told you to be sure to take the first gate and not the second but it's not the day for assertiveness or rowing so you let it ride and you go the wrong way even though you know you are going the wrong way because it's easier to do that than start a fight about it...
And so you're there, holding your badly dying/dead daffodils and you step oddly in the mud and you fall. You fall right over.
You fall like a cartoon character, a proper banana skin slip, and you land with your arse in the mud and you sit there wet and muddy, mud on your trousers, up your back, all over your legs, your hands, your face, your everything, and you laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh.
And you look and you see that everyone is laughing, because it really is funny, and none of us can stop. It's just so fitting that this should happen.
And then you look and you see that not only are the dead and dying daffodills dead and dying, they're also spattered all over with thick brown globs of mud.
And you think, "How funny. How sad." You're laughing, but it could so easily turn into hysterical sobbing.
And the flowers you end up placing by your father's tree, the big tall, fully-grown been-there-for-a-hundred-years Yew Tree that he used to sit under most every day, the tree that represents 'him' to you, well the flowers you put there are muddy, wet, wilted, rubbish, dying, dead daffodils.
Muddy. Wet. Wilted. Rubbish. Dying. Dead.
He would have absolutely pissed himself.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
It's so nice to hear from a friend that you haven't heard from for ages, especially when they sent you lots of emails which you didn't reply to because you were feeling so completely dark, and then suddenly you get another one out of the blue which shows they didn't give up on you. Because it would have been so easy to, it's dull sending 'How are you?' messages out into the ether and never hearing anything back.
My friend, it makes me feel happy to find out that so much has changed for him, and that the changes are good ones, and I like the reassurance that it's not only me that dithers with choices and not only me who wonders what to do with life.
And I love, love, love the fact that in the space of three years he's been a highly successful web innovator, a struggling yet brilliant novelist, and now he's doing something so different that it's completely off the other end of the spectrum.
I once asked my Dad what, when he was little, he thought he wanted to be when he grew up.
His answer? Everything.
I think my friend is a bit like that.
My friend, it makes me feel happy to find out that so much has changed for him, and that the changes are good ones, and I like the reassurance that it's not only me that dithers with choices and not only me who wonders what to do with life.
And I love, love, love the fact that in the space of three years he's been a highly successful web innovator, a struggling yet brilliant novelist, and now he's doing something so different that it's completely off the other end of the spectrum.
I once asked my Dad what, when he was little, he thought he wanted to be when he grew up.
His answer? Everything.
I think my friend is a bit like that.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
You know you're stupid and unable to cope when you forget to ring the oil man and have your oil tank refilled.
You know when you've got no heating and it's freezing and you need a bath but there's no hot water and you haven't got anyone to blame but yourself, well you know then that you're really a big failure and you have no life skills whatsoever. And you know when you've got no heating and it's freezing and you need a bath, no you want a bath because it might make you feel a little less sad, a bit less stressed, but you can't have one because you failed to make sure your fuel supply was continuous, well you know then that what everybody said was right.
You are rubbish.
And, just so it's clear, you feel glad that at least you're the only one up, so you're the only one who is cold and sad in the house, because the other person who lives here is currently toasty warm in bed, dreaming of smashing up Springville. And anyway you sorted it out enough that the oil man comes tomorrow.
At least you managed that.
You know when you've got no heating and it's freezing and you need a bath but there's no hot water and you haven't got anyone to blame but yourself, well you know then that you're really a big failure and you have no life skills whatsoever. And you know when you've got no heating and it's freezing and you need a bath, no you want a bath because it might make you feel a little less sad, a bit less stressed, but you can't have one because you failed to make sure your fuel supply was continuous, well you know then that what everybody said was right.
You are rubbish.
And, just so it's clear, you feel glad that at least you're the only one up, so you're the only one who is cold and sad in the house, because the other person who lives here is currently toasty warm in bed, dreaming of smashing up Springville. And anyway you sorted it out enough that the oil man comes tomorrow.
At least you managed that.
So. Yes.
Two more days, and then a year will have gone by. So very quickly.
And life appears to have gone on. I am still here.
Still.
Time, time on your mind
A conscience ticking
Images passing by like picture slides arranged
Love will survive
It twists and turns you
A circuit inside your head reminds you that it's fine
I miss you more than words can say
A part of me has torn away
A china heart will always break
A fracture to a twisted face
But things are gonna heal again
Eyes once blind will see again
I miss you more than words can say
I miss you more than words .....
Quickfade
Try, learning to fly
Reach new sky
Find a new place to be and watch life pass you by
Try to get high
Jumped so you could feel it...
You're living inside a dream
As waterfalls surround
I miss you more than words can say
A part of me is torn away
China hearts will always break
A fracture to a twisted face
But things are gonna heal again
Eyes once blind will see again
I miss you more than words can say
I miss you more than words .....
Quickfade...fade, fade, fade...
Glide, Glide over tides
And waves that pull you
Oceans divide us once and bring you home again
Love will survive
It twists and turns you
He's gone, gone, Quickfade
Its gone, gone, Quickfade...
I miss you more than words can say
A part of me is torn away
China hearts will always break
A fracture to a twisted face
But things are gonna heal again
Eyes once blind will see again
I miss you more than words can say
I miss you more than words .....
Quickfade
Feeder, Quick Fade
Two more days, and then a year will have gone by. So very quickly.
And life appears to have gone on. I am still here.
Still.
Time, time on your mind
A conscience ticking
Images passing by like picture slides arranged
Love will survive
It twists and turns you
A circuit inside your head reminds you that it's fine
I miss you more than words can say
A part of me has torn away
A china heart will always break
A fracture to a twisted face
But things are gonna heal again
Eyes once blind will see again
I miss you more than words can say
I miss you more than words .....
Quickfade
Try, learning to fly
Reach new sky
Find a new place to be and watch life pass you by
Try to get high
Jumped so you could feel it...
You're living inside a dream
As waterfalls surround
I miss you more than words can say
A part of me is torn away
China hearts will always break
A fracture to a twisted face
But things are gonna heal again
Eyes once blind will see again
I miss you more than words can say
I miss you more than words .....
Quickfade...fade, fade, fade...
Glide, Glide over tides
And waves that pull you
Oceans divide us once and bring you home again
Love will survive
It twists and turns you
He's gone, gone, Quickfade
Its gone, gone, Quickfade...
I miss you more than words can say
A part of me is torn away
China hearts will always break
A fracture to a twisted face
But things are gonna heal again
Eyes once blind will see again
I miss you more than words can say
I miss you more than words .....
Quickfade
Feeder, Quick Fade
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Tai Chi
Aikido
The physical and possible violent power of gentle movement is a new feeling, and one in which I find myself not completely comfortable with. I am used to the centering of self, the Ashtanga Yoga philosophy; the movement of Chi internally, only internally, without the potential power of moving it into someone elses space.
And yet I think I like this new feeling.
I like the philosophy of combative non-combat, I like the idea that I can fight by not fighting.
It seems to suit me, somehow.
Aikido
The physical and possible violent power of gentle movement is a new feeling, and one in which I find myself not completely comfortable with. I am used to the centering of self, the Ashtanga Yoga philosophy; the movement of Chi internally, only internally, without the potential power of moving it into someone elses space.
And yet I think I like this new feeling.
I like the philosophy of combative non-combat, I like the idea that I can fight by not fighting.
It seems to suit me, somehow.
"I am the greatest American poet who ever lived," the lead singer of this little known band says. Just so you know, he was standing on a stage in a small club in a big English city. Just so you know, he wasn't Henry Rollins or anything.
Behind us the man who's job is to sell the band's records for them during their set is sitting behind a flimsy trestle table with a pair of headphones on so that he can't hear the band, and he's reading a book about Julian Cope.
Just to point out, they're not that bad, this band. But they're not that good either. They're just a small band in a small club playing to a few people.
Afterwards a girl comes up to us. "What did you think?" She says. "Aren't they amazing?"
Me? I look at her, and I say, "Not really all that amazing. Actually. And he was a bit of a twat with all that 'greatest American poet bollocks.'"
"Twat?" She says, and she looks at me as if I've slapped her, hard with the back of my hand. "He's not a twat. He's a genius." And she sighs and gazes a practiced longing look in the direction of the band's abandoned instruments.
Just so you know, this girl, she's the sort of girl who falls for lead singers of little known bands. She's overweight and she wears glasses, and she's tried too hard with her outfit and her make-up and you just know that her masturbation fantasy is where the lead singer sings a song to her, looking directly into her eyes, then climbs down from the stage and takes her home.
My friend, he's standing next to me and he's listening to this.
My friend, he's not the type to stand for over-age teenage mooning.
He looks at me and he's got that look in his eye that he gets, and so I think about it for a minute, and then I know what he's going to do before he does it and I start to smile.
So the girl and I, we watch as he fiddles in his pocket and he takes out three pound coins and he turns and he goes up to the table behind us, and he doesn't hand his money over to the guy behind the table, he just puts it down on the top and picks up the 7" version of the bands single, and he brings it back to us.
And the girl squeals, "Ooooh, ooooh, you liked them then!" And she's so excited to find that her heroes might have added to their fan base that she's almost jumping up and down and you can bet that her toes are all curled up inside her boots. You can bet that someone buying their record is enough to make her knickers wet.
But my friend doesn't say anything back. My friend, he just looks at her and and he takes the record out of it's sleeve and he holds it up, and then he breaks it in half.
And the look on her face, it's so funny. You can see her brain is struggling to make sense of what's just happened.
She looks around to see if anyone else is laughing, and they are, they all are, and I know she can't help being stupid and silly, a girly groupie and I know it shouldn't matter how overweight she is, or how bottle-thick her glasses are, and I know it's horrid and bitchy and bullying and mean but the look of disbelief and utter confusion on her face, it just makes me laugh and laugh and laugh.
Behind us the man who's job is to sell the band's records for them during their set is sitting behind a flimsy trestle table with a pair of headphones on so that he can't hear the band, and he's reading a book about Julian Cope.
Just to point out, they're not that bad, this band. But they're not that good either. They're just a small band in a small club playing to a few people.
Afterwards a girl comes up to us. "What did you think?" She says. "Aren't they amazing?"
Me? I look at her, and I say, "Not really all that amazing. Actually. And he was a bit of a twat with all that 'greatest American poet bollocks.'"
"Twat?" She says, and she looks at me as if I've slapped her, hard with the back of my hand. "He's not a twat. He's a genius." And she sighs and gazes a practiced longing look in the direction of the band's abandoned instruments.
Just so you know, this girl, she's the sort of girl who falls for lead singers of little known bands. She's overweight and she wears glasses, and she's tried too hard with her outfit and her make-up and you just know that her masturbation fantasy is where the lead singer sings a song to her, looking directly into her eyes, then climbs down from the stage and takes her home.
My friend, he's standing next to me and he's listening to this.
My friend, he's not the type to stand for over-age teenage mooning.
He looks at me and he's got that look in his eye that he gets, and so I think about it for a minute, and then I know what he's going to do before he does it and I start to smile.
So the girl and I, we watch as he fiddles in his pocket and he takes out three pound coins and he turns and he goes up to the table behind us, and he doesn't hand his money over to the guy behind the table, he just puts it down on the top and picks up the 7" version of the bands single, and he brings it back to us.
And the girl squeals, "Ooooh, ooooh, you liked them then!" And she's so excited to find that her heroes might have added to their fan base that she's almost jumping up and down and you can bet that her toes are all curled up inside her boots. You can bet that someone buying their record is enough to make her knickers wet.
But my friend doesn't say anything back. My friend, he just looks at her and and he takes the record out of it's sleeve and he holds it up, and then he breaks it in half.
And the look on her face, it's so funny. You can see her brain is struggling to make sense of what's just happened.
She looks around to see if anyone else is laughing, and they are, they all are, and I know she can't help being stupid and silly, a girly groupie and I know it shouldn't matter how overweight she is, or how bottle-thick her glasses are, and I know it's horrid and bitchy and bullying and mean but the look of disbelief and utter confusion on her face, it just makes me laugh and laugh and laugh.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
On bizarre yet rocking rainbow dinosaurs and nonsense songs with missing verses.
I love the holidays, we've had such a good day. First of all Harry made cupcakes with his Grandma whilst I went to my last Psychology appointment, and then we all iced the cakes, and then we watched Harry make this magnificent multicoloured dinosaur:
Doesn't he rock?
And then we went for a walk in Longleat in the sunshine and sang A Horse called Bill over and over again. But I always forget the last verse so we came home and I looked it up online. Oddly, I found that there are at least five verses I've never heard of and heaps of different versions of the song which all start the same way but meander off in different directions towards the end.
I think it's an American folk song and now I want to find the 'original' words but I'm not sure how to go about it. How will I know which version is the original? The version I know was taught to me by my Father when I was a little girl and it was my favourite song. So I taught it to Harry and now it's his too. My family has been singing it for years but I never knew about the other verses.
Anyway it goes like this:
A horse named Bill.
I had a horse, his name was Bill
When he ran he couldn't stand still
He ran away
One day
And also I ran with him.
He ran into a barber shop
He ran so fast he couldn't stop
And then he fell exhaustionized
With his teeth
In the barber's left shoulder.
I had a girl and her name was Daisy
When she sang the cat went crazy
With Saint Vituses
And deleriums
And all kinds of cataleptics.
One day she sang a song about
A man who turned himself inside out
And jumped
into the river
'Cause he was... so very sleepy.
Oh I went out into the woods last year
To hunt for beer and not for deer
I am
I ain't
A great sharp-shooter.
At shooting birds I am a beaut
There is no bird I cannot bloody shoot
In the eye
Or in the ear
Or in the finger.
Well I went up in a balloon so big
The people on the Earth, they looked like a pig
Like mice
Like katydids
Like flieses and like fleasins.
The balloon turned up with its bottom side higher
It fell on the wife of a country squire
She made a noise
Like a hound dog
Like a steam whistle... also like dynamite.
In 'Frisco Bay there lives a whale
She eats pork chops by the bale
By the hatbox
By the pillbox
By the hogshead
By the schooner.
Her name is Luna, she's a peach
But don't leave food within her reach
Or babies
Or nurse-maids
Or chocolate ice cream sodas.
She loves to laugh and when she smiles
You see her teeth for miles and miles
And tonsils
And spare ribs
And things too fierce to mention.
When she's happy, how she plays
She rolls her eyes for days and days
And vibrates
And Yodels
And breaks the ten commandments.
What do you do in a case like that?
What do you do, but jump on your hat
And your grandmother
And your toothbrush
And anything that's helpless.
I didn't know the Daisy verse, the sleepy man verse, either of the balloon ones and I thought the ten commandments one was the last one...
So now I'm going to have to learn them all, in order to be able to sing it properly all the way through. Which will be another random and pointless yet weirdly pleasing string to my bow...
I love the holidays, we've had such a good day. First of all Harry made cupcakes with his Grandma whilst I went to my last Psychology appointment, and then we all iced the cakes, and then we watched Harry make this magnificent multicoloured dinosaur:
Doesn't he rock?
And then we went for a walk in Longleat in the sunshine and sang A Horse called Bill over and over again. But I always forget the last verse so we came home and I looked it up online. Oddly, I found that there are at least five verses I've never heard of and heaps of different versions of the song which all start the same way but meander off in different directions towards the end.
I think it's an American folk song and now I want to find the 'original' words but I'm not sure how to go about it. How will I know which version is the original? The version I know was taught to me by my Father when I was a little girl and it was my favourite song. So I taught it to Harry and now it's his too. My family has been singing it for years but I never knew about the other verses.
Anyway it goes like this:
A horse named Bill.
I had a horse, his name was Bill
When he ran he couldn't stand still
He ran away
One day
And also I ran with him.
He ran into a barber shop
He ran so fast he couldn't stop
And then he fell exhaustionized
With his teeth
In the barber's left shoulder.
I had a girl and her name was Daisy
When she sang the cat went crazy
With Saint Vituses
And deleriums
And all kinds of cataleptics.
One day she sang a song about
A man who turned himself inside out
And jumped
into the river
'Cause he was... so very sleepy.
Oh I went out into the woods last year
To hunt for beer and not for deer
I am
I ain't
A great sharp-shooter.
At shooting birds I am a beaut
There is no bird I cannot bloody shoot
In the eye
Or in the ear
Or in the finger.
Well I went up in a balloon so big
The people on the Earth, they looked like a pig
Like mice
Like katydids
Like flieses and like fleasins.
The balloon turned up with its bottom side higher
It fell on the wife of a country squire
She made a noise
Like a hound dog
Like a steam whistle... also like dynamite.
In 'Frisco Bay there lives a whale
She eats pork chops by the bale
By the hatbox
By the pillbox
By the hogshead
By the schooner.
Her name is Luna, she's a peach
But don't leave food within her reach
Or babies
Or nurse-maids
Or chocolate ice cream sodas.
She loves to laugh and when she smiles
You see her teeth for miles and miles
And tonsils
And spare ribs
And things too fierce to mention.
When she's happy, how she plays
She rolls her eyes for days and days
And vibrates
And Yodels
And breaks the ten commandments.
What do you do in a case like that?
What do you do, but jump on your hat
And your grandmother
And your toothbrush
And anything that's helpless.
I didn't know the Daisy verse, the sleepy man verse, either of the balloon ones and I thought the ten commandments one was the last one...
So now I'm going to have to learn them all, in order to be able to sing it properly all the way through. Which will be another random and pointless yet weirdly pleasing string to my bow...
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
So this is the adapted version of a picture I drew when I was in hospital. Does it make you feel happy? It's supposed to make you feel happier than when you look at the original, which is here.
You see, the general consensus of opinion about the first one was that the Lily looked like it was rotting.
Personally, I didn't think that but anyway, my Psychologist wanted a letter (although actually I think she was angling for a painting) which expressed how I feel about my period of 'therapy.' And so I thought these two Lilys might represent that quite well.
Monday, April 05, 2004
Spring.
Love.
Warmth.
Clarity.
My beautiful Magnolia has flowered. In every way.
I spent some lovely time at the weekend looking at an organic herb catalogue from Jekka's Herb Farm choosing plants for someone else's garden. I so wanted them all, not in the least because I am now the happy recipient of Holistic Herbal - a book that every gardener should own.
Living things.
Plants and flowers, nature and growth and the cycle of life is what it all comes down to when you really stop to think about it, spend a little time contemplating it.
And the delight of it all blows my mind.
*
Love.
Warmth.
Clarity.
My beautiful Magnolia has flowered. In every way.
I spent some lovely time at the weekend looking at an organic herb catalogue from Jekka's Herb Farm choosing plants for someone else's garden. I so wanted them all, not in the least because I am now the happy recipient of Holistic Herbal - a book that every gardener should own.
Living things.
Plants and flowers, nature and growth and the cycle of life is what it all comes down to when you really stop to think about it, spend a little time contemplating it.
And the delight of it all blows my mind.
*
Thursday, April 01, 2004
April Fools? Ha ha ha.
My Mum, bless her, is still sad that glow-in-the-dark grass doesn't exist and she heard it on Radio 4 on April Fools day many, many years ago.
Personally, I think Radio 4 have a duty not to trick their listeners. At least not the ones who would fall for glow-in-the-dark grass...
My Mum, bless her, is still sad that glow-in-the-dark grass doesn't exist and she heard it on Radio 4 on April Fools day many, many years ago.
Personally, I think Radio 4 have a duty not to trick their listeners. At least not the ones who would fall for glow-in-the-dark grass...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)