| Would yer just believe it? |
[23 Nov 2004|09:10am] |
Yer know, I had a dream Des was dead. He wasn't, and this is the kind of cat he is...
Comic cat: These cats are the clowns of the feline world. Always unpredictable, they are so lively, you can’t keep up with their non-stop antics. Jumping at invisible objects, tearing up and over furniture while pursuing an unseen foe, these cats don’t need you to amuse them, because they’re busy keeping you entertained! Two of these cats are more than twice the fun, but secure your breakables. These cats bring adventure and humor into every home.
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[23 Nov 2004|09:33am] |
Good morning then. What a glorious evening, full of encouragement and fine Guiness. Travelling to college was not a difficulty, although the train termination at Ramsgate was in fact the train that was to take us to Broadstairs, so I simply got off, and jumped back on again, two seconds later...fucking hell...update your fucking displays!
I almost had to leap through the doors and roll onto the train. I wanted to do that, but it wasn't that close. Familiar yellow lights on grey platform beheld, I was there and again walking through the streets to Thanet Tec. Sat in the gardens with my bottle of pop and earphones on, listening to U2, amongst others...enjoying my sleepy hour before college, watching cars drift in and out under the listless moon, hidden behind cloud occasionally. Eventually class began and speech study was undertaken. Not a great deal I remember, having been pissing about with my hair for the entirety. But I gather from texts that subconciously it is there. It will not take me long to work it out. There are many differences to spoken and written language, folks. Let's just leave it there.
Break time. A long ten minutes I spent, gazing up past the walls of the Kingsgate building, at the smoke of my cigarrette as it wove along the brick like a snake up. Carole had without warning put my homework on my desk as I returned, seemingly as a shock. I was until that point prepared to be given it.
Well....check it out:
"
I simply grinned, and (In a B3ta style), simply scribbled "YES! WOOOOO-YAY! FUCK!" and drew a triumphant kitten's face.
More speech study; political monologues and the effects of such things. Tony Blair vs William Hague. Astonoshing how a few aggressive gestures and points no matter how obliquely put can swing the difference between political supremacy and obscurity.
We left and Carole drove Paul and I home. She told me that I was very talented and should be putting together stuff for things like the Edinburgh festival. And she is not lightly amused, or impressed. This is a lady who reads many essays.
So cheers to her for that appraisal. Now...the Bell. When I arrived, a semi circle of familiar faces welcomed me...in a way that is warmer than the Bell usually is. There is something altogether different about these nights. A smaller group means that geniality is condensed.....like a family around a coal fire. Sat at the bar, enjoying this serenity.
French Bloke (TM) arrived, to put the scares up Melanie and Gordy. He's relatively treated as an oddball because he's the only French bloke, he talks in semi riddles, and he has a lot to say. In fact, he will often come back again and again to finish a conversation consisting of a mere syllable. He'll literally be out the door and somebody will say "Bye", too many times and he'll reel off a story about that.
Very amusing man, very skittish, nervously quick...clearly intelligent. A real French raconteur, you may say. Smokin' 'le cigars an' drinkin' le champagne'......and so was treated of something as a character to slightly avoided. However, they did talk to him, whilst I sat smiling with my paper and pen, writing poetry.
Tongy's boys arrived; a group of late teen lads who talk with emphasis on the word "fucking" and anything else audible from conversation being talk of fights. How nice. It occurs to me that i've never been part of a group like this...a herd...true my male friends have grouped with me...but our gangs our small and of constant change...we don't hang around in male herds...we have both sexes, and sometimes merely two or three...
Fact is, male packs don't click with me, and I don't click with them. And that's fine. I merely happy myself up by getting a clue right that Ian has not been able to work out, read the paper and sit contented. At the end of the night as the Guiness took me, I slipped my headphones on and with a smoke in my hand drifting it's clouds across the bar and the lights wooing me to a haze, I thought and stared at the lines of bottles as the Look of Love tinkled through my mind.
And if you know what that means, that is spectacular.
Went home...crashed out. Woke up, and scanned essay.
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[23 Nov 2004|10:24am] |
Woo..those eyes...every time I see 'em it's like staring at black stone. A lightning bolt to the soul. Long may it continue.
Now then. Work today, in a blissful twenty four hours in which I know I have no better thing to do tomorrow than to sit here and write swear words all day. That is until Bolb gets back from her appointment.
You lot! Get back to work! We've got quotas to fill! Don't bother with the safety catch!
I want to work with one of those big machines with plastic covers over buttons. Put me into a naughty factory, with my seemingly unforced ability to smash, knock over, and destroy breakable and dangerous objects without flickering an atom.
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[23 Nov 2004|11:09am] |
Right. Time for a shower. Then some more mucking about with plates and balding chefs. I must leave, lest I want to put a chair leg through the television that Jordan is now yakking away on without a shred of intelligence or grace.
Hateful, horrid woman.
See you lot later.
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[23 Nov 2004|03:57pm] |
Work...you bitch mistress....how you wet my shirt and make me dirty with your horrid stack of plates and cleaning. I'd happen to suggest you were severely playing on my forgiving nature today.
Yes, it was. Hell, that is. Upon entering Andy informed me of the imminent arrival of a fucking inspector, and not the ones that stumble about in shabby coats, pretending to leave, then returning to accuse me of murder. The kind that checks hygiene.
Which meant I had to clean the fuck out of the place. In addition to doing about forty people's dirty fucking plates. I still escaped at twenty past three, but i'm acheing and tense. I will have to do more on Thursday, if he hasn't "dropped in" by then.
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[23 Nov 2004|06:50pm] |
I'm outta here. You lot can talk bees if you want. I'm off to clean myself up and get my arse out to a drinking hole to read work books and draw pictures of drunk bears.
Bye for now.
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