What I did(n’t do) on my holidays. 

I sat down to bash out a blog post but I’ll be buggered if I can remember what I was going to say. I had something hilarious in my mind earlier while talking to Tucker but it’s gone now. I doubt it would’ve been hilarious anyway. Mildly amusing at best probably. 

I’m in a bit of a state of panic due to the fact that it’s bloody Saturday already. I’ve been off this week but have a list of life admin chores I must get through, one of which is to investigate the remote possibility that I might actually be due millions of pounds in PPI claims. Another tiresome chore is to move some stuff from one room to another, which in this heat is trickier than it sounds motivation wise. 

So it’s now bloody Saturday and I’ve tackled neither of the aforementioned chores, nor indeed any of the rest. I did manage to list some stuff on eBay but somehow cocked up the bid starting price and some cocky fucker (for want of a better word) had the barefaced audacity to do a “Buy it Now” for 99p for a dress which cost me thirty quid and I never wore #dontyoujudgeme. I cancelled her order (she was RAGING) and refunded her 99p plus postage but the whole affair still managed to piss on my Wednesday chips and I fantasised about shoving her down a flight of stairs which I’ll admit is an overreaction but July has been a cruel month so far in lots of ways so my overreaction is thereby justified and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. 

In between angst ridden naps – I’ve not been sleeping well and what little sleep I get is occupied with stress dreams about being late (ugh!) for things, not having the right clothes to wear and showering in public – I’ve managed to complete a couple of sewing projects in my usual ‘och that’ll dae!’ modus operandi. I ‘completed’ a dressing gown for Mrs Baps in a rather lovely red Paisley pattern silky fabric which I consign to the bowels of hell for being the slippiest bastard known to man and an absolute shithouse to get through a sewing machine. The dressing gown pattern claimed to be a ‘Complete this project in two hours!!!’ affair but due to the slippery bastard fabric it took me the best part of three weeks. Mrs B is wearing it though and claims to love it but I’ve seen the look of fear and resignation on her face, which is a tricksy mixture of emotions to express facially. It looks a bit like this. 


Pop a wee dark haired wig and a badly made red Paisley dressing gown on that and it’s a dead ringer for Mrs B. 

I’ve kinda lost my blogging mojo by the way. You have noticed the lack of output if you’re a regular reader. I just dried up blog content wise and I don’t know how to get bemoistened blog content wise again. 

On a serious note I did want to acknowledge the death of Simon Bishop though. Simon was one of my early Twitter friends in the early days of Twitter before it got nasty and troll-filled and when there were only like six people tweeting and who all said goodnight to each other . Simon was a one-off. A marvellous human being loved by everyone who met him but who couldn’t seem to love himself. Top bloke. Here, have this,  written by NPR commentator Aaron Freeman. 

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him/her that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let him/her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her/his eyes, that those photons created within her/him constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly.

(Copyright 2005, NPR.org)

Peace Out.