Oh, had you not heard? Yes, it turns out that by all accounts quiet is the new loud. That’s the sort of thing we’re always being told, if you start pulling threads and ask me which accounts I’m going by then I’m afraid that I’ll have to admit that I don’t know (I’m totally not making this up as I go along if that’s what you’re thinking. How ridiculous would that be?). The most common one of these is obviously the classic that whatever colour people suddenly want to start flogging you is the new black. It’s simply not true. Even black isn’t the new black, it’s terribly passé (I sit and type this in my decidedly black jeans not giving a fig for the fashion whims of the clothing elite).
So don’t sit back and wait for other people with nothing better to do with their lives or time (because anything with that sort of qualifying criteria is quite obviously my job) to tell you how it is. You can decide for yourself. Probably. I think I can carefully mould and transform you into a cutting edge trend setter (and then claim all of the credit for your hard work).
All you need to do is take a minute or five to sit back and ponder about how precisely you’d like the world to be different. Out with the old, in with the new, all that jazz and whatnotted shaped malarkey. If quiet can be considered the new loud then just imagine the endless possibilities (I’m certainly not stalling because I’m completely and utterly stuck for ideas and therefore cannot produce any remotely convincing examples for your reading pleasure. There’s absolutely no way that’s what’s going on. I definitely wouldn’t admit to it if it was now would I? Unless I needed to fill in some space or something).
I can so totally do it. I can sit here and through nothing more than the sheer power of my own positivity and thinkitude I can pull a fully working a sensical blog post out of that particular orifice where the sun doesn’t happen to shine. I’m that good (and I’ve been doing this for quite a while, it’s not overly difficult. You basically just have to keep saying things and try to forget about anything in the realm of quality control. There’s no time for such thinking).
Positive thinking, believing in a brighter, better future in spite of all evidence to the contrary, reaching out towards it, knowing that it will simply fall into your grasp if you can only strain enough towards it. Unless such exertion completely knackers your back. But it won’t, you can’t even begin to consider such a terrible prospect if you want to be productive.
Thinking makes it so, that’s the guff I’ve decided to spout today (I’ll have a brand spanking new philosophy ready to roll out some time in the very near future. They’re surprisingly not difficult to come up with. Food for thought there. Or not. Probably not, that’s the nature of this sort of thing).
So whatever’s going on in your life (I’m not sure what exactly, I don’t like to pry. Well, I’m not opposed to it because I occasionally indulge in a tendency that could possibly be described as nosiness but it is a little difficult to spy on my readers. And I can’t be bothered), however dark or bleak or scary it might be, all you have to do is get your inner Pollyanna on. Smile, hope for the best, think happy, think fluffy and cute. Consider the bouncing bunnies and wee ickle lambies in the fields. Flood your head with syrupy goodness and there’ll be no room for the nightmares. Probably. Fingers crossed.
Oh and Happy Birthday Dad.
Can you think of anything more truly terrifying than a city filled with only owls? Well, you probably can you imaginative little thing but I’d be grateful if you kept such thoughts to yourself for the time being because the owl packed city happens to be the image we’ll be going with today. Are you alright with that?
You see as far as I’m aware (which is admittedly not all that far but you know I’ll never admit that fact outside the confines of brackets. Unless I already have, I’m not exactly going to go to the bother of checking), owls normally stick to hanging out in parliaments (they have a particular and all consuming love for politics we boring humans couldn’t possibly understand). So you see for them to have gone to the bother of either building an entire city from scratch or invading and overthrowing one from the shackles of the human oppressors is really quite telling. They’re clearly up to something pretty major.
I am generalising just a little bit of course. There are many different varieties of owl. This probably means that they don’t exactly operate as a hive mind, there’s more than a little room for individuality. So the evil plot in operation is undoubtedly the brainchild of a small and decidedly select council of elder owls who rule the roost at the heart of the owl city. I couldn’t tell you the endgame of their master plan because I genuinely have no idea (and am obviously far too lazy to have a crack at devising one) but a niggling sensation at the back of my mind is telling me it’s not good. Who’s to say that the owls will be satisfied with just the one city? Maybe they’ll want to expand into further territories. We must remain vigilant in order to stave off this feathery and fictional menace.
There’s nothing like a nostalgic trip to an old childhood haunt. Well, there probably is but I don’t really feel like going into that now. The other day my dad took me and my brother to Worcester Woods, somewhere we’ve been to many times when I was quite a bit littler and not a whole lot since. It’s amazing really how much it’s stayed the same but also the extent to which relatively minor things have altered it. For one thing they’ve built a hospital right next to it making for a slightly different atmosphere.
I’m a big girl now though, I’ve grown to be capable of taking these sorts of things in my stride. Or so I thought. You see, we wandered our way round, amiably reminiscing about days gone by and enjoying the prettiness of the bluebells. Then we got to what should have been, what used to be, the very best bit of the walk. The secret second playground. The one with the duck seesaw and that used to boast the best tyre swing ever. Once we got to this point it meant that we were no more than a spirited dash across an open field away from having Calippos in the visitors centre (which they of course no longer sell but I was able to indulge in a startlingly grown up sparkling elderflower drink. How times have changed). But I’m very sad to have to say that we found said playground very much gone and nothing but an empty field in its place. It’s fine, I’m probably too big for the seesaw now anyway.
It’s funny really. When I was about seven, the trek through Worcester Woods always felt like a sprawling epic journey spanning endless miles of woodland that encompassed various games such as Spies and the chance of finding caterpillars that I dubbed Steve (other names are available). It turns out that you can do the entire circuit in half an hour flat. It all depends on your perspective I suppose.
Speaking of family get togethers (if you’re confused, take a peek at yesterday’s post before nonchalantly sidling back to now as if you knew what I was on about all along. Not to worry, I’m a deeply perplexing, confusing, self referential person. It’s just one of the things you love about me. Yes it is), small children wielding face paint is deeply delightful. Provided, that is, you can provide a fairly compelling reason why your face is exempt from daubing (for the first and last time in my life I say thank you eczema for giving me a face that would redden and scale upon contact with the paint. Alright fine, I would rather have been able to join in but you have to take or make your positives wherever you can or you’ll go mad and start stabbing people with paintbrushes. Not speaking from experience or anything obviously).
It was fascinating really to see various patient and obliging family members and other assorted guests submit to the artistic flair and temperament of my cousins, aged seven and four respectively. The transformations were so stunning and complete it was rather difficult to believe that we weren’t really in the company of a pirate who’d suffered a thrilling misadventure in a blender (Facebook comments can be so cruel and descriptive), a bandit spider (I’m not sure I ever quite found out what he was really meant to be but he had a black mask across his eyes and webs all over his face, what was I supposed to think?), a spider-dog (I sense a theme developing but it was more that the dog got abandoned halfway through the design and spider webs had proved a favourite thing to paint), a clown and a quizzical and flamboyant devil (why limit oneself to the suggested colours of red, yellow and black when there are infinitely more exciting colours winking at you from the box. Colours like purple and green). It was truly magical.
Here’s the thing about family gatherings. I could say almost anything at this point and make it applicable to that highly intriguing post opener so I will try my level best to make it something everyone can relate to. Forget about the stimulating and charming company, the excellent food and the sudden abundance of excitable children to play with (two in this case). No, the thing to consider and remember is that if you just so happen to run an alphabetically themed daily blog and you’re stuck on a particular letter (say, l, for a crazy wild example), don’t mention it. Because your helpful and inventive family will flood your tiny mind with suggestions that are now completely unusable.
Of course I could now spend the day extolling the virtues of the creamily citrus-tinged deliciousness that is lemon cheesecake or the fictional goddess Liz Lemon. I could ponder where lighthouses purchase their massive bulbs from. I promise I honestly could totally spin any of those subjects out into a three hundred word masterpiece that would make you question the very nature of your existence (who sniggered?). But how could I when selecting one person’s suggestion over another would forcible shove someone else’s nose out of joint? Even in such a reasonable and forgiving and rational family as mine, such an action would most surely trigger a bout of infighting and feuding the likes of which you have never seen (it was a similar incidence that got the Montagues and the Capulets going). It is impossible to overestimate what a high honour it is to have your suggestion featured on here.
So instead do please allow me to say this: edible gold leaf is definitely a thing, we haven’t made it up. It’s a bit pointless given that it doesn’t really taste of anything but it’s relatively impressive and made the parfait look very pretty indeed. That is all.
Oh yes, that’s right. I’m going there. If you believed me when I told you that my grip on the geography was pretty damn shaky, prepare to be amazed as I clumsily side step the issue of locations across the globe (I might not quite have planned what I’m going to say yet, it’s all terribly exciting).
Sally and Eric are undeniably perfect for each other. It’s an undeniable and very definite fact. She’s a caring and compassionate listener. He never shuts up. She cannot cook to save her life but is more than happy to do the washing up. He’s a freaking culinary genius. They’re both very into sci fi, particularly the assorted works of Joss Whedon. Clearly there are a great many things they could have ever so much fun talking about in depth.
The sad fact is though that is Sally and Eric’s discussion about the ever increasingly unlikely sequel to Serenity is probably never going to happen. They’ve never met and what with their circumstances being the way they are it’s a meeting that simply isn’t going to happen. Sally is in a zoo in Kingston Upon Thames with a group of her fellow marsupials. They’re lovely boys but she’s only ever seen them as friends, brothers even. They could hardly ever be romantic prospects. As for Eric, he’s half a world away from Sally and another half from home. He went travelling for his gap year, left Sydney behind and has never quite made it back. He’s relatively happy where he is, does various Kazakhstani things and impresses the locals with how very high he can jump.
So what’s to be done about this unlikely pair of potential lovers? These brave kangaroos who just can’t know the extent of the wonderfulness of the relationship they’re missing out on. Shall we trust that fate will bring them together in order to prove that soul mates are really and truly an actual thing? Or will them remain as they are, strange shy fictions lurking in the recesses of my mind? I imagine it’ll have to be the latter given that option number one sounds like such a lot of work. Oh well, hop along.