Tuesday, January 25, 2005
And The Moral Is...
HAPPY BIRTHDAY BINNY!! 26 TODAY!!!
It is my youngest sister’s birthday today. Lindsay is now on the down slope towards her thirties, where she will join me with pipe and slippers in hand. Happy Birthday lil’ sis!
Here is the title of her favourite poem. Some of you may recognise it from a famous Douglas Adams book. It means a lot to her apparently:
Ode To A Small Lump Of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning
Lindsay also shares her birthday with Rabbie Burns.
Since Gail was at the dentist today and my father also suffered a weekend of toothache, this poem not only celebrates Burns, but is also for them:
Address To The Toothache
(Burns 1786)
My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or argues freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,
Our neibor's sympathy can ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases-
Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
While round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup,
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup!
In a' the numerous human dools,
Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,
Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools, -
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o'fools,
Thou bear'st the gree!
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Where a' the tones o' misery yell,
An' ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,
Amang them a'!
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore, a shoe-thick,
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A townmond's toothache!
During lunch, I completed the press releases for both the Internet agencies as well as private publications. I also wrote personal letters to the editors/arts desks of various carefully selected publications, ranging from The Scotsman and The Leither to the East Lothian Review and List Magazine.
The premise is basically the same, except I have targeted the audience of each publication differently to make it more appealing. I gave the Ed’s suggestions and related the material to their own magazines/papers then posted them early afternoon.
I never got a chance to send some other releases by e-mail to the rest of my target list, so it looks like it may be Thursday before I get to that.
Gail and I had Indian for dinner then got fired into boxing a lot of my gear. My clothes, books, paperwork and other paraphernalia representing my cluttered (but highly organised) life, all packed away into neat little boxes.
I had to retrieve my kilt when I remember the Six Nations tournament is just around the corner, which will no doubt mean some furious Rose Street drinking with RAF Squadron 512 in the next few weeks.
My PC will have to stay as long as I can let it before bringing it down. The desk is to be dismantled and given an honourable discharge. And a replacement will be sought for my brand new office.
We got through a lot but there is still much to do. I toyed with the idea of not going to snooker tomorrow so we can get everything done for Friday.
“You’re GOING to the snooker, okay!” Gail said.
“I really think it’s best if I put the effot in to make sure it’s all done in time. There’s loads to do. It wouldn;t be fair to leave you to it for a night” I argued.
“It wouldn’t be fair on you – I know how much you like a pint and a game of snooker.”
“But –yer Dad won’t mind. Trust me.”
“No. Absolutely not. I like NOT having you around on a Wednesday, so yer going. And that’s final!”
Nice eh?
The moral is: Even when you want to break your back labouring for your woman, sometimes it just isn’t enough.
1 Comments:
:-)
