This doesn’t mean that I won’t start again somewhere else. I probably will. But until then, I’d like to thank everyone who reads, and say, hey y’all, you’re fab.

Sayonara

xxx

Anyway, I haven’t got much to say because I did nothing over the weekend. My friend Marie and I just sat around in our pyjamas for 48 hours, drinking bloody marys and watching DVDs.

So I have nothing of any interest to say. I looked in the paper, and there is a mysterious outbreak of dead pigeons up north which could have been amusing, but somehow my heart wasn’t in it.

I’ll try and remedy this lack of inspiration by tomorrow though.

I got home last night to find a large pile of pigeon feathers drifting forlornly in the breeze of the open bedroom window.

I looked in the bed (remembering a friend who awoke one morning to find a squirrel’s head resting on the pillow, a la The Godfather – I didn’t want to get into bed only to be eyeballed by a mauled and bloody carcass); I looked in my backpack; I looked in my laundry basket; I looked everywhere.

I can’t find the goddamned pigeon.

There are a number of features on WordPress that I quite like:

• You can create different pages, so I could have lots of other stuff on here. Not that I would do much with it, other than write nonsense about myself, but the option is there.
• They have a nifty little calendar.
• You can categorise your entries, so that people arriving at the site can browse through all the exciting posts you have ever written about say, pigeons, and be enlightened more quickly than they might have been if they didn’t know there was an entire category of posts all about pigeons.
• erm… that’s it, really.

The ‘cons’ of moving the site are:

• You have to choose one of the ugly and boring templates, which you cannot then change (although according to wordpress, this is so that I don’t have to tax my brain with snippets of HTML or CSS or whatever, and is therefore for my own good). I quite like this leafy autumnal template that I have at the moment, but blogger is pissing me off with its insistence in moving the sidebar down to the bottom of the page whenever I post photos, and being in other respects unimaginative.
• Because you can’t change the templates, you can’t use haloscan for the comments, as far as I can tell. Please enlighten me if this is not the case. This would mean that I would have to leave all my lovely comments on this site.

I don’t know. Who cares? Really?

Pff. I’m off to buy some chocolate.

I’m trying to do some data entry from evaluation forms we collected from a recent tour. If I read any more inane commentary, written in yellow, pale green, or baby blue ink, my eyes will swivel one final time in their sockets and drop, squelching onto my keyboard, condemning me to wander the barren moors with a bloody scarf around my head, like the Earl of Gloucester in King Lear.

Although these days we have the RNIB, so I’d probably be fine.

Anyway, I am going away again. Back Tuesday.

·BF and I found a dead mouse outside his house at the weekend, which I nearly stepped on.
·Someone today at work, clearly in the grip of mid-week hysteria, has asked why we never see baby pigeons.

The clear answer to the last question is that it’s because they emerge, fully formed, straight from hell. Tom, who sits opposite me, suggested that they creep up through the paving slabs at night, when no-one is looking. I think that this is more than plausible.

Anyway, the baby mouse reminded me very much of one that fell asleep in the toe of my roller-boot when I was ten. Unfortunately for the mouse, I didn’t know it was there until, after a strenuous session of roller-booting at the youth hut in the next village, I reached in to extract what I thought was a sock from the end of it and my fingers encountered damp fur. Nice.

On another occasion, early in the morning, I was attempting to rescue a mouse from being eaten by one of my family’s five cats. Picture the rustic scene – junior Rachie, clad in a fluffy dressing gown and clutching a piece of toast, dances around in front of the warm aga in her bare feet, attempting simultaneously to make the cat drop the mouse, and to shoo the cat from the room. Unfortunately, the cat dropped the mouse in the exact spot that my left foot was about to occupy. I’ve not been able to hear the word ‘squish’ since without thinking of that fateful morning, and the feeling of mouse between my toes.

I don’t really know why I’ve felt the need to relate my mouse-murdering past. Perhaps its my looming plane journey – I need to confess all my misdemeanors to someone…