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Lovely glittertigger's hen night at the weekend. Great excuse to visit Hotel Chocolat for tasty treats, although I think we deserve a whole pile of demerits for losing our hen through taxi fail.

As we sat in the restaurant waiting for her bold rescuers to redeem her from the gutter where we'd cruelly abandoned her (it was the gutter right outside her house, so not that uncomfortable a wait) another hen party came in. "She's got a tiara," whispered my neighbour, "and they haven't lost their hen."

Later on I got into a long ramble about growing up in the countryside, during which it was suggested that I "work through" my "issues" by writing a comic in which Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall is firmly lectured in the error of his ways by the entire cast of The Good Life. I think the idea was some sort of "turn, turn again!" type Christmas Carol-ish tale, in which the Whittingstall finally grasps the error of his ways. Possibly naked. Or in a gimp suit. I may be confusing my Felicity Kendal stories.

I was also challenged to create a (Thomas) Hardy haiku. Here is the result:

A single bird sings above
mud; more mud. The sheep
Just keep on dying

Or thereabouts. Does that even have the right amount of syllables? I can't count straight, I woke up at five this morning in the middle of the sort of nightmare that has you wincing in sudden absolute horror at odd moments for the rest of the day, as the memory surfaces, like a bad fish. Harlequin was standing over me, with anxious eyes; I guess I was whimpering in my sleep.

Sunday I wasn't good for much but we did go to the tip. So anyone who wanted a sky blue basin that had travelled in time from the 70s, tough, too late. Today I'm still in pain, though that has more to do with work woes. I have a bad webmonkey task on at the moment and the choice is as follows: wrist, forearm, shoulder, elbow. Will you sacrifice one for the sake of the others, or will you try to spread the pain around? I'm opting for the spread so far, but we'll see how tomorrow goes.

P.S. Owltober marches on, hideously:

horrible owltober error

Comments

( 8 worms — Feed the birds )
timscience
13th Oct, 2009 07:08 (UTC)
5:7:5 with added grimness.
I suggest something on the lines of

A doom'd bird above
mud and yet more mud; the sheep
just keep on dying.

Sorry for dooming the bird, it just seemed more Hardy-esque.

Edited at 2009-10-13 07:11 (UTC)
crazycrone
13th Oct, 2009 09:12 (UTC)
Hardy Haikus...
Have made my day; arf.
timscience
13th Oct, 2009 09:28 (UTC)
Re: Hardy Haikus...
We decided that the seasonal signifier was the mud, which signifies autumn.

Or maybe spring. Or winter. Or perhaps summer.
motodraconis
13th Oct, 2009 09:56 (UTC)
Fucking Hardy... I hated his poetry at school, though I suppose it was difficult to muster up sympathy for his depression having just read Wilfred Owen (also on our syllabus) getting distressed over people dying horribly from mustard gas and the like.

I can't haiku, for me the memory of Hardy's poems can be summed up thus...

I live oop North,
It's always raining,
It's unbearable,
I want to die.

OH FUCK OFF HARDY! MOVE TO FUCKING SPAIN!!!
cleanskies
13th Oct, 2009 11:12 (UTC)
so much for Hardy's sense of place
Not even North Devon -- I grew up in Hardy country, which is West Dorset. The market town over the hill (Beaminster) from the miserable village I lived in (Corsecombe) was where something significant happened. Probable someone's sheep dying. Was it the wife selling?
motodraconis
13th Oct, 2009 11:18 (UTC)
Re: so much for Hardy's sense of place
I had no idea he was down south, (and I spent 2 years on his poetry for O level!)
All I can remember is him going on about constant rain and miserable weather. I suppose I must have assumed he was further north than me because this excessive suicidal moisture didn't equate with my own experience as a southerner.
cleanskies
13th Oct, 2009 12:20 (UTC)
two years on his poetry???
That's sadism, that is. Ouch. The constant rain is something of a feature of the Dorset downs. Bits along the coast are pretty much temperate rainforest -- the Lyme Undercliff, for example.
motodraconis
13th Oct, 2009 19:32 (UTC)
Re: two years on his poetry???
Well, 2 years mixed in with other stuff, like Shakespeare and Lord of the Flies and Wordsworth. I dunno, my memory is hazy (I've probably tried to block it out!)

But 2 days of Hardy would probably be too much for me.
( 8 worms — Feed the birds )