... but I stopped. Now I'm a dad, and may blog again...

Saturday, April 23, 2011

274: Why lie? I want a beer.

hundreds & thousands
It’s very hard to blog when I am not on my own.  I’m currently at friends’ house after spending the afternoon spring cleaning the garden in preparation for Monday’s big barbeque.  Jerk chicken is being prepared, I have a cold Belgian beer, So You Think You Can Dance is on the gigantic wall-mounted television, my fiancée is confused about how old she is, my one-year old godson is pulling on the laptop charger and climbing the stairs, and the general level of conversation is shouting.  I have a plan to be involved in a technology/art exhibition which may involve blogging relentlessly at a busy exhibition, responding to the visitors and all that is happening around me.  Seems like it might be incredibly hard work; I’m struggling... I know some noisy women people.

The difference between millipedes and centipedes has nothing to do with billions, millions, hundreds, thousands, or hundreds and thousands.  Millipedes are usually sort of round and centipedes are usually sort of flat.  Millipedes always have two pairs of legs per bodily segment, and centipedes always have one pair of legs per segment.  I hope that has cleared that all up for you.  I’m glad that’s sorted.  Just to reiterate, this is a millipede:

And this is a centipede:

Got that?  Good; I’m glad that’s sorted.  Now let’s get on with it.  Whatever it is.  But, don’t these minibeasts know this is two thousand and eleven?  We should be on billipedes by now; or at least tri-millipedes.  Erm, yeah, whatever.  It really is difficult to write with all this noise.  Music blasting from the next room, the TV is now screaming Britain’s Got Talent, the baby is screaming for food and banging stuff on the floor, his mum has the worlds loudest speaking voice, and all I can think about is the zoological distinctions between similar creepy-crawlies.

Dear god, I give up; bloody racket.  I climbed up on a roof before to unblog unblock a gutter and discovered a large patch of grass growing on the tiles.  If I was so trite as to think like this, I could have whipped out my camera and photographed it; started a series of arty photos about plants growing out of rooftops and through the cracks in walls and pavements.  Unfortunately I’m not an A-level art student, so that doesn’t seem like such a good idea.  Or, like Michael Landy, I could destroy everything I own including all my books, money, art and clothes, then spend months drawing portraits, followed by months drawing weeds.

But then what?

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