lookalert

Ornamental Toilets.

Our bathroom is progressively becoming outdoor furniture. We now have a bath below my window (which has water in it from the rain) and a toilet by the clothesline, which, amusingly, has birdshit on the seat. Good little birdies.

Moving to the inside of our house, we have 2 toilets and no shower. I'm going to be stinky tomorrow. Thank goodness I'm going back to Wellington. I'm not quite sure what the rest of my family will do though... one only hopes it will involve installing a new shower.

Mary is admirably stingy. I know I will succumb to the pressures of the Harry. And Mary will read my copy after me, crafty thing. I hope I've acquired a job by then...

Things that are happening on 16 July:

• New Harry Potter book is released
• Challenge for the Children is held in Chicago
• An acquaintance with blonde hair and former employee of McDonald's is having his 21st. I will not be there, but still

16 July is the place to be, guys.

McCullum! isn't a name. It has punctuation.

God, I hate comments about eyes. Randomly thrown in comments. I never know if it's a veiled reference to me or not. Because I know I have brightly coloured eyes. And it makes me nervous about whether I am being insensitive or oversensitive.

$70 for Harry Potter...well, not even my mad desire to read the book will push me that far. Sorry, Harry, but the call of the wallet is stronger.

$69.99!

Is how much Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince will cost, hardback, on the day of release (from Whitcoulls).

You know, the last thing I really want to do is sacrifice whatever commitments I may have, head down to Lambton Quay on a Saturday to queue up with a bunch of small children dressed in robes with lightening-bolt scars on their foreheads to pay $70 for a hardcover children's book that will be $30 paperback come summer. And yet, on 16 July, that is probably exactly what I am going to do.

On second thoughts, I can wait.

I would like to point out that "McCullum! " is a name.

That is all.

I've found it, I've found it!
Yay. After being missing for a year, Yield has been found. In my bottom drawer, with my diaries.
Hence, Pancho. In the 'things that Mary says', which includes: eat grass. chainsaw. yerrr. and fridge.

I would like to see one article - just one! - that talks about a Marshall twin and makes nothing of the fact that he's a twin. And makes no stupid puns like Marshall law. ARGH.

To add to Mary's collection of lovely sportspeople: Peter Solberg [spelling?], current World Rally champion. Norwegian. Blonde. Lovely. He was on Game of Two Halves the other night - on Marc Ellis' team, which was good, cos I hate Matthew Ridge, based on nothing at all - and he was lovely. And had a norwegian accent. And still was funny.

I think I overuse the word lovely.

My sister and I were watching cricket last night - I watched the day and the replay, that's how sad I am [to be fair I only watched the afternoon and it was the morning's replay], and discussing the fact that the Black Caps are as follows:

1. Cumming.
2. Jamie or Marshy.
3. Hamie or Marshy.
4. Flem.
5. Nastle.
6. Chin.
7. McCullum!
8. Franky.
9. Mills. or Damnit.
10.Wiseman.
11. Martin the Rabbit.

None of them have names anymore. Except for the ones we don't like. Or don't know, eg Cumming. And Martin, who we don't like, but is a rabbit.

Ah, sisterly bonding over cricket players and norwegian rally drivers.....

Ah, names.

Pancho Pancho Pancho! Pancho Pancho Pancho!

If only Jean-Luc was still with us. He'd make a lovely nickname.

Groan.

Headline in tonight's Waikato Times:

"They had Waughs but we've got Marshall law"




Yes.

Lost in Translation.
You know, the English language is very cold. You lose a lot of the colour and feel of a play when you translate it into natural english. It just isn't the same when you have a greek (or Persian) wailing
"Atatatatai!" and beating his breast, and the English reader saying "Oh."

The line I am currently translating is a good example. The entire Persian army has been destroyed; the queen has foreseen it in a dream, and now as learnt her dream is true. She is utterly wretched, miserable, hopeless....

Queen: How the utter destruction of our host distresses me!

Gosh, said Edward. She must be upset.


I've done just over 80 lines, for the record. In 3 hours. I've also hung out laundry, attempted [and failed miserably] my maths, and made my eye appointment. And played cards.

"The snake convinced me, and I ate."

www.thebricktestament.com amuses me. It's The Bible, with Lego men! I love it. Particularly the pink watering can of Adam. And Cain as a baby.

I am doing Greek. I have a goal today of 200 lines, plus 2 questions of my maths, 2 loads of laundry, and some cleaning out of my room. I have been here an hour. I have done, oh, 25 lines. Not a good start.

This is not to say that the Lego men are distracting me. Although Cain just killed Abel, in a smattering of red lego blocks, the Persians are still being struck by the Greeks with the force of waves, and their limbs are being hacked off, unfortunate wretches that they are. And Xerxes is wailing aloud at the depth of the disaster [Aeschylus Persians: 463.]

HEEEEEELPPP!!!! I'M ALIIIIIIIIVE!!!!!

So, I was just lying in bed considering the consequences of waking up from a coma to find myself locked in a coffin six feet under the ground, and now I'm too terrified to go to sleep, in the event I may fall into a coma and be mistaken for being dead. However, I have thought of several ways in which to avoid this unfortunate scenario:

1. Cremation. Quicker. And slightly warmer.
2. Request a major artery be cut at death, much like what some person, possibly Hans Christian Anderson, wanted.
3. Have a large crypt and make sure the lid is loose (G-Money's typically ostentatious solution).
4. Become an organ donor. Make sure they take out every possible organ. You can't function without a heart and lungs, can you? Better take the kidneys just to make sure. I'd give you my retinas, but they're already fucked.
5. Don't go to sleep. The internet is a fascinating place after dark.
6. Become immortal. Alternatively, don't give up your mortality just so you can hook up with Aragorn, however appealing that may be.

So, if I happen to die in the night, please make sure they read my driver's licence and tell them they're free to take whatever organs they desire. They can drain me of blood too - they're always going on about needing more blood. And make sure I'm cremated. Ashes can be made into diamonds, you know.


I'm quite serious about this. I'm really scared. I'm also pathetic and unreasonable, but hey.

P.S. Congratulations on your recent acquisitions, Mary. The Game of Life kicks arse.