…I just have to record the fact that I just ate an all day breakfast sandwich - for non-British readers, that’s sausage, egg, bacon, ketchup - which came in a box bedecked in a sticker that solemnly informed me that said sandwich contained no mayonnaise. Which is obviously important, for health reasons.
Slicing lemon to go with my lunch: the knife dug deep into the tip of my middle finger. True story: when I was ten, I cut my thumb while slicing carrots, fainted from the sight of the blood, hit my head on the radiator, and ended up in intensive care with a severe concussion.
I was scared it would happen again. I flung myself down the stairs and pounded on fellow work-from-homer J’s front door.
“I HAVE AN EMERGENCY” I cried through the door. He wrapped paper towel around it and held my arm aloft as I crumpled to my knees.
“You’re OK,” he said. “It’s only a small cut.”
“But it is a key cello-playing finger!” I whimpered.
“You don’t play the cello,” he said.
“I used to,” I pointed out.
Antiseptic, plaster: a few minutes later, he sent me home, with a recommended poem to help me get over the trauma: Cut, by Sylvia Plath.
discuss (via blandben)
Do you carry dozens of photos of yourself around in your wallet? That would be awkward.
Will I regale my children with tales of my youth in London in order to make myself seem glamourous, as I drive them to their orthodontist appointments?
- When I have my eyebrows threaded (which I did a few hours ago), my body goes into exactly the same panic reaction that I used to have on airplanes. I mean, having one’s eyebrows yanked out with a piece of thread isn’t pleasant - it’s pretty painful, really, although a must for a beauteous eyebrow - but why does it actually make me feel claustrophobic?
- When someone comes round to fix things in my house, why am I expected to offer him tea? I never do, partly because I am not British and partly because he is always two hours late, at least, which makes me quite cranky. But apparently this is a giant faux pas and I am essentially a rank violator of etiquette. But he’s not a guest, and I don’t want to hang out with him, so why must I put the kettle on? Am I an intolerable curmudgeon?
from the mouths of Gods
I beg to differ, dear departed Kurt. A good semi-colon is a beautiful thing; it is the champagne of punctuation. And semi-colons are also useful for other things: making lists of phrases; creating a pause longer than a comma, but shorter than a colon; generally, adding elegance.
Oh, Andrew. That said, I think we should still have one because there is something quite sweetly anachronistic (as opposed to just plan anachronistic, like the Royal Family) about having a dedicated national poet in the age of Twitter.