Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Teaser Tuesday: Book Related

I pinched this from Just One Page, and it may work better for her reading in a more literary manner!

Grab your current read. Let the book fall open to a
random page. Share with us two (2) “teaser” sentences from that page, somewhere between lines 7 and 12. You also need to share the title of the book that you’re getting your “teaser” from … that way people can have some great book
recommendations if they like the teaser you’ve given : ) ! Please avoid spoilers!!!

OK then....:

'Not as much as it freaked me out when a voodoo doll turned up'

'The fun transfers to one of our rooms, usually mine (I can be persuasive like that), and never Sam's (who might have a body in there for all we know).'

From Andrew Collin's 'Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now (My Difficult '80s)'

Now this is a good, lightweight fluffy book if you wish to read it on public transport. But it probably is only interesting if you were a teen in the '80s (like me!).

I thought I'd do the same with Per Petterson's Out Stealing Horses, this month's book club choice. But each sentence is about a page long so I abandoned that swiftly. I have managed a total of 27 pages in three weeks. Panic reading starts in about twenty four hours.

GD: is stuffed (with food that is!), trying to balance on a computer chair on which the back has just fallen off, about to be technically a whole year older in 5 and a half hours time, listening to Radio 2 and wondering why....

Monday, March 30, 2009

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here

I have realised that not hearing is actually more painful than outright rejection.

Nuff said.

Guess I need to go find something productive to do with my shambolic life.

GD: miserable, ancient crone of doom. Awaiting the arrival of an even more miserable crone (and my father). I'm beginning to resent the fact that I can't actually have any 'alone' time with my dad anymore because she always comes and then inevitably complains about everything. Down to the smallest detail. No more chemical conversations about the poisonous properties of plants (the old man was a chemist), no more politics talks...no all we're allowed to talk about now is why I don't have 'babies', how much I earn, why don't I eat more (she's the same height as me and 13 stone heavier...), and how I'm not normal. Oh! and how much money she's managed to do my dad for this week....

Think I perplex her because I ask for nothing. No money, no emotional support. Because that's the way its always been and always will be. If he couldn't pay for me as a child, he doesn't need to pay for me as an adult when he needs me more than I need him. Life does things like that.

Er, this post digressed somewhat. Oh well. Time to go paint on a smile and fake nice.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Sound of the Underground

Or, Going Underground if we don't wish to quote Girls Aloud. I've been a bit underground. I'm working too hard, drinking to much and feeling the rather grim effects of it all on my rather feeble constitution. In other words, I feel like crap and I'm sat here with a large glass of red wine merrily contravening the government's drinking limits for women of a certain age.

Part of the issue is that as I approach another birthday, I'm wondering quite what it's all about. I can't claim teen angst as a spur anymore, but perhaps middle age is as good an excuse as any.

I'm also suffering the shock of realising that how one views oneself doesn't necessarily reflect the views of others. namely, in my 1-2-1 with my manager (who can be the Queen of Sharp when she wishes) I was a little shocked to realise after my hour long rant that she actually feels sorry for me. Worse than that, I get the feeling she's concerned that I am an abused / controlled wife in thrall to some monster of a man (OK, maybe we should have just stuck to work issues!).

If it had just been the one time she'd implied this it may not have sat so heavily on my psyche. It's not though...and that's what worries me. Is this what my friends think? I'm too scared to ask them...

Perhaps it's my representation of P as a person to them that is the issue. I don't vocalise my whinging often, but when I do it's like a torrent of slurry that pours over my tongue with a particularly bitter aftertaste (much like the wine is leaving now). Its also a very unfair representation of him as a person.

But when your hard ass boss offers you a room to move into if things get too hard, well, I look back at the conversation and wonder when she got the impression that I need that level of care?

Oh well. Perhaps I should accept that I have special needs. I am very thankful that someone cares enough to look out for me. But I'll be honest and say that it's left my platform of self image somewhat rocking.

GD: drinking red wine + wrapped up in a cream blanket = bad combination. Listening to Elvis Costello. Waiting anxiously for news from a number of publications that will not doubt line up to say 'NI!'