Marching On

The one where I wax lyrical over the moon

It is late.  It's cold out, and the moon is casting a beautiful silvery light into my room.  Occasionally, clouds scud across the sky, casting their night shadow on the walls.

I love the night sky.

I love taking late night walks in the winter though our village.  There are no street lights here, and on a clear night, the sky is just incredible.

I love the night sky so much, that there are seven different pictures of the moon decorating my bedroom.

Tonight, the blinds are staying up.  I will fall asleep dreaming of the stars.

Where art thou?

Pizpot,

Where are you?  Please come home.

Love,

Gargravarr

Driving me mad

Apparently something like a quarter of all Londoner’s would fail their driving test if they had to take it again today.

I’m not sure whether I would pass either……I think I would….I know most of the rules, but breaking them is somewhat deeply engrained. I can’t remember the exact stopping distances. I can’t remember what a red circle means.

But I can see why so many would fail. I think I met a large number of them on the road today.

So here are a few pointers for my fellow London drivers, gleaned from years of extensive motorway driving and countless near misses with complete morons. I KNOW what I am talking about, ok?

1. Indicate. I am not telepathic. I have no clue where you want to be if you don’t let me know, nor do I particularly care. If you do pull out without indicating and force me to slam on the brakes, don’t act surprised when you get a mouthful of abuse and/or selection of tasteful hand gestures. I don’t give a flying fuck if your children are in the car……your lack of driving skills will hurt them more than my language will.

2. Don’t assume that because you are indicating that someone is going to let you in. We all saw the lorry move into the middle lane too and that is why we all moved over half a mile back. Not my problem that you didn’t. Wait your fucking turn. In the same vein, the roadworks were signposted several miles ago, and we all saw the reminders every 200 feet that one lane was closing. I’m not letting you in because your lane has now been coned off. Tough titty, twat.

3. You ain’t so special that you can jump the queue. Ever.

4. Mirrors are a great thing. Embrace them. Odds are you are NOT the only car vehicle on the road.

5. If you want to stick to the speed limit, fine. Don’t get in my fucking way – stay the hell over. The overtaking lane is for exactly that – overtaking. Don’t try to pass a car doing 70 mph at 71 mph. Arse.

6. If I am driving at 90mph, do you really think that pulling out mere feet in front of me at 70mph is such a good idea? Especially when there is no-one behind me? Use your mirrors, you fucker.

7. Lorries, we all know that you have trouble on hills. So why the fuck do you drive side by side on a dual carriageway at ever decreasing speeds when there is a stream of traffic just wanting to pass? Why? Are you really that desperate to get one over the Sainsbury lorry by overtaking? You know damn well that as soon as you pull in front of him, he is going to overtake you again anyway……..

8. The tolls have been signposted for miles. Including the toll rate. Have your fucking money ready. And for the love of God, don’t go to the fucking auto-toll booth when you haven’t got change.

9. Don’t try and flirt with the bloke in the booth because you forgot your purse.

10. 14 lanes of traffic have to merge back into 4 lanes after the toll booths in less than 100m. That means back to motorway speed in 200m. Put your fucking foot down and move it, wanker!

11. There is an exit immediately after the tolls. So stay to the left if that is where you are going. You are not going to be popular cutting across aforementioned 14 lanes of traffic merging back to 4 lanes just because you didn’t want to queue with the lorries.

12. Stay in your own bloody lane on the roundabout. I don’t appreciate being forced to a screeching halt because you can’t follow lane markings.

13. One way systems really do mean one way, and that does include you, arsewipe. No, I do not give a monkey’s piss that you are driving a BMW, you can’t go that way and I am not backing up for you.

14. Parking is not fucking rocket science. Just park and go.

15. You have to pay to leave the car park. Before you leave. There are enough fucking signs to tell you that, so why are you so surprised when you get to the exit barrier and it won’t lift? Really? Sort your fucking life out. Everyone else managed it and now everyone else is stuck behind you.

16. Don’t park on my drive. Just don’t. You will not be happy when you return to your car.

Tune in for tomorrow’s entry…..a “Survivor’s Guide to Road Rage”.

T-shirts, entitled “I Survived the M25” will be on sale in the lobby shortly……….

Older than me!

Happy Birthday, dear Baron!

He has attained the grand old age of 28 today. And he is not too happy about that!

Pool tart

Pool tart.

One good thing...

.. about this cold is that my jeans are now too big for me.

I like.

3

I really would prefer the slow orgasmic death, but since no-one else has opted for that route yet.....

Three names you go by: Sarah, Pen, and Mouse.

Three screennames you have: dmouse007, penfold007, and themadcatlady.

Three things you like about yourself: eyes, my ability to talk to absolutely anyone and my love of animals.

Three things you hate/dislike about yourself: my weight, my inability to dye my hair to to the colour I intended and the fact I cannot stop my nails from breaking off.

Three parts of your heritage: Norman, Russian and Polish.

Three things that scare you: the current US administration, guns and snakes.

Three of your everyday essentials: mobile phone, Grinders and a bottle of water.

Three things you are wearing right now: glasses, catfur covered jumper and battered old jeans.

Three of your favorite bands/artists at the moment: Stone Temple Pilots, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Incubus.

Three of your favorite songs at present: Band Aid Feed the World, By the Way and The Reason.

Three things you want to try in the next 12 months: sticking to the speed limit, successful gardening and volunteering for cat rescue.

Three things you want in a relationship (love is a given): fun, trust and damn good sex.

Two truths and a lie: I can pick up any music instrument and play it (although not necessarily that well). My nose is pierced. I like the Baron's brother.

Three physical things about the opposite (or same) sex that appeals to you: Hands, eyes and height.

Three things you just can't do: Draw, cook well done steak and eat cheese.

Three of your favorite hobbies: Reading, cat stuff and learning my bass guitar.

Three things you want to do really badly right now: Piss, have a cup of tea and a brownie.

Three careers you're considering: My current career is more than enough.

Three places you want to go on vacation: Fiji, Iceland and South Africa.

Three kids names: Lily, Charlie and Alfie.

Three things you want to do before you die: Drive a race car, travel to the moon and see my hundredth birthday

Three people who have to take this quiz now or die a slow orgasmic death: Amy (although I think she'd definitely prefer the slow orgasmic death), Shelly and Stacey.

Bereavement

It is with great regret I announce the passing of the Baron's car.

Our Escort, circa 1991, has served us faithfully (barring the electrical systems, which have been a pain in the arse).

It has taken us to France. To the supermarket. To the North of the country. To the pub.

It has provided endless entertainment. The "when is the horn going to stop blaring?" competition was always a delight. The spontaneous horn sounding also had its moments - outside Holloway prison, stuck in traffic in a notorious gang zone, and behind a police car are just some of the precious memories we shall cherish.

It shall be missed. Not least because I must now share my car with a confirmed crap driver.

Farewell, Escort. May you rust in peace.

Just keep packing

Just keep packing.........just keep packing.

Blame Katie

This is Katie's fault. It came from this site.

You say "the city" and expect everyone to know which one. (Is there another that matters?)

You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Shepherds Bush to Elephant & Castle at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Dorset on a map. (I can find it. Just. And Shepherd's Bush to Elephant is easy peasy)

You step over people who collapse on the tube. (Generally. Especially if a can of Special Brew is being clutched)

You've considered stabbing someone. (not lately. After Tom, stabbing is a tad more real. It's usually beating people with my laptop)

Your door has more than three locks. (Yes)

You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression. (Hell yes! You do not look at people on the Tube)

You call an 8' x 10' plot of patchy grass a garden. (it's all I have, dammit!)

You know where Karl Marx is buried. (Highgate Cemetary, and very pretty it is too)

You consider Essex the "countryside" (That is where we are moving in 13 days time. Very countryside.)

You think Hyde Park is "nature." (Well, what else could you call it?)

Shopping in suburban supermarkets and shopping malls gives you a severe attack of agoraphobia. (K-mart was just plain scary. Way too big, with way too much unnecessary crap. How much choice does a person really need?)

You've been to Tooting twice and got hopelessly lost both times. (I used to work there, and got lost frequently. Icky place, but it is south of the river)

You pay £3 without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28p. (Blinking isn't going to bring the price down, and I am not going on a beer diet)

You have 27 different menus next to your telephone. (Yes. I have a folder for them all)

The UK west of Heathrow is still theoretical to you. (I suspect it is theoretical to the bods in charge of the roadworks on the M25 coming up to Heathrow too)

You're suspicious of strangers who are actually nice to you. (Too weird)

Your idea of personal space is no one actually standing on your toes. (Alas, but is it just a dream?)

£50 worth of groceries fit in one paper bag. (Sadly, this isn't exclusive to London)

You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories. (All involve alcohol, unsurprisingly)

You don't hear sirens anymore. (Except on football nights when it sounds like the end of the world)

You've mentally blocked out all thoughts of the city's air quality and what it's doing to your lungs. (But I don't get hayfever in the city. Works for me)

You say 'mate' constantly. (Guilty. Even the Boy has picked that up now)

Anyone not from London is a 'wanker'. (Except a few select people. My mum, for starters)

Anyone from outside London and north of the Watford Gap is a 'Northern Wanker'. (Again, except my Mum and a few others. But everyone from the city knows civilisation ends at the Watford Gap)

You have no idea where the North is. (Sadly I do, as I have been. I don't wish to again)

You see All Saints in the Met Bar (again) and find it hard to get excited about it. (I haven't seen them. Here, we see Posh and Becks (lucky us) a lot. No-one cares)

Somebody speaks to you on the tube and you freak out thinking they are a stalker. (You don't talk, unless you are drunk, or walk into someone. General chitchat is weird, and marks you as a desperate perv. Or a tourist. I'm not saying which is worst)