To procrastinate or not procrastinate.....

I hate housework.

I despise it. I loathe it with a vehemence, and if I can find some excuse to avoid it, I will. Some folk are obsessive about domestic chores. I too am obsessive about house cleaning: I am obsessed with NOT doing it!

My sprogs having flown the nest some time ago, and not having found Mr-Nobody’s-Perfect-But-He’ll-Do, I live alone, but since my daughter’s departure several months back, I have become ever lazier. It matters not to me that there are piles of laundry dotted around my bedroom, or that the cat hair has accumulated in sufficient quantities that I could knit an entire new moggy if I so desired.......

I am so laid-back I am nearly horizontal; so chilled-out that you could store cans of fizzy pop down my bra; so mellow that I am almost yellow...... Need I go on?

I have perfected the Art of Procrastination in much the same way as some people concentrate on improving their golf game. I am tickety-boo at making lists - oh, the endless lists! - of chores that need to be done, and the order in which they must be performed, but generally speaking, once the lists are made, I give myself a teensy pat on the back for having achieved that much, a cup of coffee and a couple of hours playing on the internet......And so it continues.

Deadlines for achieving targets are forever being set, I half-heartedly make a start, then get distracted by the silliest of things, such as finding a box of my kids’ old school reports and sitting down to read how great they were at bunking off, but that they must do better at Food Technology, or whatever they call cooking these days..... Old photos are the worst, and I sit misty-eyed over pictures of chubby-cheeked infants, trying to reconcile them with the two lanky beanpoles that call me Mum today.

As I sit here adding to my utterly pointless blog, I realise that I am doing it again. Having prepared my spare room for the arrival of an Honoured Guest tomorrow, I am now rewarding myself with another stint on the computer....... Mental Cat however, is trying to tell me that Something In The Kitchen requires my immediate attention by scratching on the door; I suspect that Something may have grown legs and levered itself out of my fridge to hungrily await my tentative entrance into the Kitchen from Hell. I peer cautiously round the door at the ominous piles of pots and pans teetering precariously, awaiting their turn in the sink, but apart from clearing a small space in which to lodge my coffee mug in between refills, I ignore the call to domestic arms, and evacuate as fast as possible, closing the door firmly on the horrors within. Takeaway sounds a good idea....

Alas, with the time between now and the arrival of Honoured Guest dwindling fast, I fear I must roll up my sleeves, gird my loins and grit my teeth in order to tackle the last of my dreaded chores............ Well, maybe after I’ve fortified myself with another cup of coffee........................

Danger! Genius at work....

A while ago, we Gerard Butler fans were asked to contribute a story for a book detailing our GB-inspired trip to Glasgow back in January. “A doddle!” I thought, and plonked myself down, confident that I was about to produce the next seminal work of literary genius, albeit limited to three hundred words....

Coffee IV in place, I sit in front of my computer with fingers poised above the keyboard, and wait for inspiration to strike. It’s a long wait. Like my computer screen, my mind remains a blank. Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building. Nobody’s home. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Diddly squat. Far from striking or even tapping gently at the door of my mind, Inspiration has packed its spotted handkerchief and taken a hike to pastures new, leaving me bereft of all ideas with which to titillate my potential readers. (I like to think there may be more than one.) However, after this, I fear my readership may decline somewhat and follow sanity and Inspiration out the door.

Why is it that I have ideas in the most inconvenient places, but when I have a deadline to meet, everything shuts down and refuses to cooperate? I’m often in the bath when a concept occurs to me, and by the time I’ve dried off and hastened to get pen and paper, my memory has played its usual trick and the idea has done a bunk. That’s one of the pitfalls of getting older as I am discovering to my cost. I simply cannot retain things in my head for more than a nanosecond these days unless I can commit thoughts to paper the very instant they occur to me. One cannot interrupt coitus with one’s beloved by shouting “Hang on a mo’ while I write something down!”. It’s simply not the done thing, not to mention a tad rude to admit that you may not have had your mind on the job in hand, so to speak. (Oh, the sheer volume of my untapped genius that has been lost in such situations!)

I have a brain like a sieve nowadays. It gads about all over the place like a bluebottle searching for fresh turds. I have become known in my local supermarket for screeching suddenly to a halt mid-aisle to scribble maniacally on the back of my shopping list, much to the disgust of other shoppers. I have learned to do my shopping late at night to minimise the risks of being run over by trollies travelling far too close and too fast to avoid a collision. But as usual, I digress. That’s my brain for you. I was saying how my mind flits all over the place; I’m sure that part of the problem is my advancing rapidly into middle-age, but am equally convinced that sitting in front of a computer day in day out has played its’ part. That gently whirring contraption that sits so innocently on your desk, urging you to forget everything and just play one more game of Solitaire....Where’s the harm in that? I’ll tell you. While you’re pitting your wits against the seemingly benign machine, it’s gradually but subtly draining all the grey matter out of your head via your fingertips and storing all accumulated memory on its’ own little chips. “Out of memory,” it lies if you try to open more than one application at once. Sure it is, only it’s you that’s out of memory. Your computer is chortling happily to itself, knowing full well that it can repeat the process ad infinitum once you’ve recharged your batteries with a quick kip. It’s all part of the master plan; computers are taking over the world. They will drain the knowledge from every living being on the planet, then eradicate all human life by electrocuting us all as we type.

Paranoia rules. I find that increases with the degeneration of my memory. Perhaps it’s directly linked? Maybe I can attribute my ever-expanding waistline to that too? Got to blame it on something. Perhaps it’s all part of the computers’ master plan that we all become fat gibbering wrecks who are tethered to our keyboards in order to facilitate the removal of the very essence of our minds? Who knows? I certainly don’t, but I’m sure this thing is conspiring against me somehow.

Where was I? Oh. Seeking inspiration. Um.

Elb in a blue funk...

Having been embroiled in a very frustrating job at work for the last few days, (a client had been, as we say in our business, "Buggering About With Things They Shouldn't") I find myself in an extremely negative state of mind. Combined with my domestic crises of last week, my morale is so low I can't find it. (Or was that my morals?)

In my workroom, I retreat into my headphones and blast my already questionable hearing with VERY LOUD MUSIC, my customary therapy for a bad mood. The treatment fails. Foul tempered and equally foul-mouthed (my room isn't called the Tourette's Room for nothing....) I play Green Day at full whack whilst using highly scientific instruments (a hammer) to dismantle stubborn assemblies.

I try to decide which track best suits my evil mood: perhaps "Basket Case"? Or maybe "Brain Stew"? As I belt precision components with my hammer and throw the offending parts across the room in a fit of pique, I fear "Redundant" and/or "Good Riddance" may be my swansong if I am fired for mistreating customers' property......

I change the CD but not artist, and decide that I need Billy Joe from Green Day to "Give Me Novacaine"..... played loud enough, it may render me unconscious until this awful mood has gone... My musical Prozac failing to have a significant effect, I toil on in a little dark cloud like some sinister goblin, muttering under my breath. The trouble is, whilst wearing headphones, I forget that other folk can hear me, and a passing colleague receives the benefit of my extensive knowledge of early Anglo-Saxon verbage. With the glow of embarrassment to add to the simmering mix of vile temper and menopausal overheating, my face radiates sufficiently to register on the lower reaches of a Geiger counter.

I need to go and kick something/somebody and scream to let the demons out of my head, and broodingly contemplating DIY trepanning, I try to gauge whether my head would fit in the nearby vice. I discount that method, and consider having a manic boogie to try and ease the situation, but it doesn't figure as part of workshop protocol, and would give the lads far too much entertainment than is good for them. Besides, my dancing is classified as dangerous, as friends on the dance floor can verify.
Why is it that whilst flinging myself around a dance floor, I see myself as the girl in "Flashdance" or like Kevin Bacon in "Footloose", or Patrick Swayze's partner in "Dirty Dancing", whereas in reality, I look as if someone's just tipped a bucket of ice down my back and am making frantic efforts to remove it by jumping around like a lunatic. Not to mention the adverse effects it has when someone of ample boobage like myself leaps up and down repeatedly.........black eyes, bruised knees and a nationwide alert of earthquake activity.

I take my wee black cloud for a walk into the workshop, giving my ringing ears a rest, under the pretence of using the cleaning machines, but really to have a therapeutic whinge with the lads. Amazingly, it works a treat, and after much mutual moaning about our respective problems, the cloud disperses amidst bawdy banter and the plotting of misdeeds for a forthcoming occasion. Lighter in demeanour, (but alas, not weight) I return to my onerous task a happier bunny, and decide to look on the positive side. It'll be payday soon. My smile however, is shortlived as I remember the impending invoices from the Saviours of Gas and Electricity, but then I brighten again as I also remember that I now have HEAT again, thanks to the lovely Marcus.......

I am easily pleased..........

And it's lunchtime.

The thaw sets in....

Having cocooned myself in my study (the second smallest room in my house) with the newly purchased fan heater, the weekend crawls by while I try to keep warm with far too much coffee, which results in me getting caffeine jitters and bouncing off the walls. The lovely Marcus has left a message telling me that my circuit board has arrived and to call him, but by the time I finish work at the shop on Saturday, it seems rude to call, so I leave it for the weekend. Even if I have no life, other people do. The guy deserves a break.

My mobile rings on Monday at 8am, as I am driving to work. Ever the law-abiding citizen, I pull over to the side of the road, annoying the drivers behind me who think I have just pulled in to let oncoming traffic pass. A queue builds up as I chat happily to Marcus and he arranges to come round tonight to "sort me out"! (It's been a while since anyone said THAT to me....) I proceed on to work, cheerfully ignoring the hoots and glowers from the small convoy behind me.......

At the appointed hour, Marcus arrives to work his magic yet again, but, rather than play the attentive hostess, I sneak back upstairs to my cocoon and leave my tame heating engineer to work alone in the frigid depths of the boiler cupboard.

I now sit in front of my computer, revelling in the warmth of having HEAT again. Recklessly, I even kick off my shoes to let my toes feel the benefit, but promptly put them on again when the cat beats a hasty retreat from under my desk, looking disgusted. I will never take my utilities for granted again. Although I was only without heating for a few days, it made me appreciate the simple fact of being able to switch the heating on, and *pow* - instant warmth.

The lovely Marcus has promised to call me at the end of the week, to ensure that all is well and that I am happy. Happy doesn't even BEGIN to describe how I feel; I am positively ECSTATIC that I can now walk round my home without looking like an Eskimo. I no longer have to de-ice my computer screen before accessing the internet. No more icicles hanging from my nose as I type, fingers encumbered by woollen gloves. I return to looking like a regular frump rather than a bag-lady, and the glowing red beacon of my nose dulls to a more healthy rosy pink.

I HAVE HEAT, PEOPLE!!!!! *Dances celebratory jig and - lo! Breaks out in a SWEAT!*

So now it seems that I must address the Leaking Sink Scenario............................. *sigh*

Elb in the Arctic.....

The saga goes on........

Choosing to temporarily ignore the leaking sink in the bathroom, and cleaning my teeth in the shower, I discover that the Archaic Boiler has once again gone on strike. I phone Marcus the Saviour, and he promises to attend within two minutes. I am somewhat surprised, not to mention delighted when he does just that! (Is he psychic? Was he lurking outside, just in case? Has he sabotaged my heating system for some strange reason known only to him?)

This kind gent of the plumbing trade goes through the same routine as last time, and warmth is restored once more. Cheerful Marcus heads for home, happy in the knowledge that I will not freeze tonight. My boiler obviously has other ideas, and less than two hours later, we are returned to Arctic conditions...Defeated and dejected, decat and I head for the more comfortable climes of my electric blanket.

I send a message to Marcus in the morning, and he calls me later to announce he has Had Words with the boiler manufacturer and ordered a new circuit board, as this is judged to be the problem. In the meantime, I buy a fan heater to aid in defrosting my ample personage....

It never rains, but it pours...

Delighted though I am to have had my electrical issues addressed, I am not yet out of the woods. I am still without heating, and for another night, I sit at my computer and shiver, clad in a fetching ensemble to insulate me against the all-pervading cold that is my house. Fully-dressed, I have had to add a thick fleecy dressing gown, pink beanie hat and woolly gloves. Yes, gloves. I can no longer feel my nose, but I can tell it's still there from the red glow reflected on my computer screen..... Sensible people would have given up and retired to bed, but I am made of sterner stuff, and I don't DO "sensible".

Next day at work (having left poor cat in conditions resembling the North Pole) I thaw gradually.

Late in the afternoon, I receive a phone call from the lovely Marcus, tame Heating Engineer to the Desperate. Would it be okay if he popped round after 6? Of COURSE it is, and at the duly appointed hour, cheerful Marcus arrives to take up the challenge of my chilly predicament.

He gamely picks up the baton passed from Sparks Junior and dives into the freezing recesses of my boiler cupboard. Like a surgeon, he exposes the coiled intestines of my archaic boiler, and works his way through numerous tests. Finally, he diagnoses a blown fuse in the timer mechanism, and faster than you can say "Thermostat", Archaic Boiler roars into life, sending me into paroxysms of delight, my poor frozen catsicle into meltdown and Marcus into a frenzy of invoice-writing. I blithely write him a cheque and send him on his weary way, whilst revelling in the luxury of feeling warm again.

Oh joy.
Oh bliss.
Oh shite.

As one crisis concludes, the powers that be have determined that I have not yet suffered enough, and another spanner is chucked into the works....

I have sprung a leak.

Not me personally I hasten to add, but the damp patch in the bathroom that I had blamed on the cat (sorry Noodles!) turns out to have come from the plumbing behind the sink, and when I check it out, I discover that the U-bend is leaking like a torpedoed submarine. I prepare to abandon ship, but decide am overreacting, and instead, stuff a towel underneath to absorb aforementioned leakage.

I retire to bed, contemplating the fact that tomorrow, I will have to add to my collection of pet tradesmen, and get the final part to the set: a plumber. Tomorrow is another day......... *sigh*

Things go BANG in the night.....

Never, EVER take electricity for granted.

I did. Until last night. Until I didn’t have any......

Picture the scene, if you will: Elb, snug in her warm study late at night, is rattling away on her keyboard, chatting to mates on GB.net, when suddenly - BANG!
Stunned for a moment, it takes me a while to realise that the lights are still on, but the computer and TV are not. Dead as the proverbial Dodo in fact. I have sufficient brain cells to work out that the ring main has thrown a wobbly, but it’s far too dark to investigate the cause - the fuse box is outside in the (unlit) porch.....

I spend ages patrolling the area, sniffing for signs of possible conflagration, but find none, and reluctantly retire for the night, fretting about the effect this may have had on my poor computer.

My paranoia overwhelms me, and I envisage the house burning down in the middle of the night, so I prepare for such an eventuality; I put my essential medication in my bag beside the bed, lay shoes and jacket ready to leap into at a moment’s notice, and crawl beneath the duvet fully clothed..........

Two minutes later, I am up again to recheck the porch for the fire that I just KNOW is about to take hold, but my fears are once more unfounded. I check that the keys are in the window locks to facilitate my flight, should I need to escape through my bedroom window, have another pee and retire to my bed once again, resolving to buy a new battery for my smoke alarm if I survive this fateful night.

My cat is skittish, and I convince myself that it is because she can sense an impending remake of “Towering Inferno”, but after yet another tour of the house, I climb back into bed. And so it continues throughout the night.......

Bleary-eyed from my constant fire patrol, I get up later than usual, as it is evident that I must find an electrician rather than go to work. I ring in with my excuses, and go to check that it’s not simply a blown fuse which I could replace myself. I wish I hadn’t looked..... Two of the fuses are blackened and scorched, the plastic covers crumbling. I was lucky. All of a twitter, I ring the emergency number for my electricity supplier, and two young men arrive a couple of hours later to rescue me from mortal peril......or so I thought. One of them dismantles the offending consumer board (I’m beginning to learn the terminology...) and tuts over it, shaking his head. I deduce that means things are terminal, but when asked “Can you fix it?” he replies that he COULD, but then he’d be in breach of his contract as the problem is on “my side” of the electricity supply. Despite there only being an inch between “sides”.

Oh, deep joy.

Sparks 1 & 2 depart, leaving me with NO power at all, after disconnecting the (still working) light circuit. I worry about the food in my fridge and freezer, and resolve not to open the door to get anything to eat, as I understand it is best to leave these things shut as long as possible.... My growling belly fails to understand this however, and puts up a loud protest. Due to my laziness, procrastination and/or stinginess, I do not have any food in the house that doesn’t require cooking....I set out to use up as many free minutes on my mobile phone as possible, and swiftly discover that procuring the services of an electrician is like trying to find rocking horse poo. Everyone I call says they will “get back to me”. This becomes a familiar mantra, as it seems that these Gods of Power are in short supply, and no-one can spare a Spark Jockey today. What am I to do?

My nerves are already in shreds, exacerbated by the fact that I haven’t had my caffeine fix yet, I’m still worried that my computer may have fried when things went kaput last night, and I’m ravenous enough to eye up the cat as it makes a nuisance of itself while I’m trying to use the phone. I can’t leave the house, as someone “might” turn up, and the battery on my phone is depleting rapidly, with no prospect of recharging it....

Just as I am at the point of brain overload, the phone rings, and a lovely lady tells me that she has someone available if I still want them. DO I STILL WANT THEM???? Do bears s**t in the woods?? Is the Pope Catholic???? I rein in my roar that of course I effing do, and politely grind out “Yes please!” whereupon she despatches said Sparks to my door.

An hour later, this child (for he looks like he is only just out of short trousers) has replaced my dangerous electrics, the power is back on, freezer is humming happily, Mac Mini is NOT frazzled (oh, the relief!) and all is well in World of Elbmow once again......

Or so I thought. We discover that the (gas) boiler will not fire up, and although the plug and socket test out fine, the Child-Sparks is baffled. He shrugs, collects his tools and hands me the buck to pass onto the next engineer I call...... I give up on the idea of showing my face at work, and leave a message with my friendly heating engineer to give me a call..................... some day.

Thank heaven for small mercies though. I am back online......

Writing can be Hazardous to your Health....

Ordinarily, one wouldn’t assume writing to be a particularly dangerous occupation. Of course, if one should be so singularly stupid as to sit at one’s desk whilst perched precariously atop a crumbling cliff, then yes, it could be seen to be somewhat perilous, but most of us would see this to be a far from ideal situation in which to pen one’s memoirs or novelette.

My own scenario for warbling on my word processor is to sit in a shabby but comfortable old office chair in front of my "command centre" in the corner of my office-cum-study. Where is the danger in that, I hear you ask. Is my computer developing an electrical fault while a misplaced cup of coffee is teetering too close to a bare wire? Is there a slow build-up of invisible carbon monoxide threatening to render me comatose? (That reminds me, must get the boiler serviced.) Has Al-Qaeda decided that Weevil is the heart of Western decay, thus necessitating the total eradication of all who reside there? (Possibly it is.)


Answer: None of the above. My own personal hazard to my health is my cat. Not an allergy that could trigger a fatal asthma attack, or the fact that my murderous moggy lies in wait across the top stair; something far more sinister. Dear little Noodles (yes, Noodles) has the habit of snoozing on my desktop with paws dangling casually over my keyboard. This in itself is not a huge problem, despite the fact that when she sits up, she obscures the screen, and I cannot for the life of me touch-type. I watch the keys as I peck away with two fingers like some demented chicken. It’s only when she lies down that the real trouble starts. As I have already said, she lies with paws above my keyboard drawer, and feigns sleep while I get down to the nitty-gritty of wordsmithing. As my own paws fly about their business on the keys, she opens one lazy eye to watch, then flashes out with her claws and sinks them into my poor defenceless digits. The delete key is a particularly hazardous area which I avoid at all costs until Noodles can be distracted with a ruler while I hastily make corrections!

I have tried remedying the situation by removing said feline from the equation altogether; I hasten to add that I don’t mean a trip to the vet’s surgery, merely shifting moggy from her resting place to somewhere that I consider more comfortable for both of us. This subterfuge works for a short while, but when she has grown tired of Kitty Chunks and a quick squat on the sofa, she will gradually make her way back, crawling commando-style on her belly in the hope that I will fail to notice her subtle approach. From the corner of my eye, I spot her inching in through the door, then onto the back of my chair and finally, the nonchalent skip onto the desk again to resume her rightful (she thinks) place. What is it about cats that makes them sit in the most awkward places? Even if I have stacks of untidy paperwork in front of me, booby-trapped with staplers and hole punches concealed beneath, Noodles will still insist on flopping down atop everything as if it is the most comfortable cat bed on the planet.

This situation in itself is not usually life-threatening to most folk, merely a little painful, but after a nasty bout of septicaemia a few years back which almost led to my untimely demise, apparently I am now prone to further recurrence of this condition. Thus, if Noodles should scratch me and the scratch become infected, it may ultimately prove hazardous to my very existence. Short of adopting the somewhat inconvenient habit of wearing heavy leather gauntlets while I type, or evicting said cat into the perils of Weevil's moggy-thug underworld, I shall have to continue to take my life in my hands in the pursuit of literary stardom. So, when you read my verbal meanderings from time to time, consider the risks to life and limb (literally!) that I take to commit these words to the screen!

Growing old disgracefully...

I used to be an intelligent, articulate woman. I am the mother of two grown-up children, and I hold down two jobs, but since discovering Gerard Butler, and GB.net. (the website dedicated to this Scottish actor) I have swiftly degenerated into a squee-ing, insane, horned-helmet-wearing Smut Strumpet! *

And I just LOVE it!

I have Gerry photos clustered around my workspace, have collected almost all his films on DVD, and have to admit that impure thoughts of this deadly handsome man have crossed my mind occasionally. Okay - a lot. So what the hell is going on????

I’m 46 for God’s sake! My body is telling me I’m middle-aged, but my mind is rebelling and back-pedalling furiously. I feel like I’m doing a menopausal Michael Jackson-style-moonwalk. (Only without the hideous plastic surgery!) I’ve developed a passion for punk/Indie music, given up watching the appalling drivel they put on TV these days, and am probably dressing more lamb, less mutton than I should do, for a woman of my rapidly advancing years. I have a yearning to travel and take a “gap year” like students do, to change my life before it’s too late, and arthritic decrepitude sets in........

But I’m happier than I have been in YEARS!

I realise that it’s probably because of THAT time of life, and the fact that I’m now single again after years in harness, that I am lusting after the unattainable (and-ten-years-younger-than-me) Mr Butler, but my reasoning (I still have some...) is that if this chap makes me happy, then why not drool over someone I’m never going to meet?



I’m a creature of simple tastes - good food, good wine (although the cheap stuff is all I can afford) and good company. However, after the last debacle that was my relationship, I avoid (romantic) male company, and have become something of a recluse. I have retreated into the internet and embraced cyberspace where I have discovered - thanks to GB.net - new friends to replace those who did not live up to expectations in the Real World.

Aware that I am becoming the Howard Hughes of Weevil, (my derogatory term for the town where I live) I decide to do Something About It, and with reckless abandon, put my name down for the First Annual Gerard Butler Fan Convention to be held in Glasgow on January 21st of this year........ I haven’t been away for nearly 12 years, and never, EVER alone, so for me, it is a HUGE undertaking. But boldly, inspired by this man I have never met, I go where no Elb has been before: I book tickets, a hotel and buy a case - shortly to become famous in its own right as Slutty Suitcase - ready for the convention.

My relatives think their fears for my sanity have been justified as I make plans for my trip with increasing idiotic fervour, but I AM HAPPY! Nerves multiply like rabbits reproducing as the due date approaches, but I am determined that I WILL DO this, if only to reinforce my freshly acquired independent (and stroppy with it) status, and prove to myself that I CAN!

And I DO.

My adventures in Glasgow are documented in “Elb’s Oddysey - Ramblings of a Lunatic in Glasgow" a handy little link to which is provided up there on the right, under the heading of "Links", which is an entirely appropriate place for it to appear................ Click on it if you dare.....

* And the “Horned-Helmet wearing Smut Strumpet” comment is vaguely explained therein.................

Elb under the weather.....

I am obliged to visit my doctor today with a relatively trivial ailment and discover that it must be Senior Citizen Special Offer day at the surgery.

The place is pulsating with wrinklies, (some with a weaker pulse than others) who regard the waiting room as some kind of social club; the noise level from their nattering is phenomenal, considering how ancient some of them appear to be. Walking frames and canes litter the room, providing a death trap for the unwary, but at least any casualties are in the right place....

(What is the collective term for a lot of Zimmer frames? A clutter? A clutch? Maybe a wobble of Zimmers?)

Elderly ladies regale each other with tales of who didn’t make it through the weekend, punctuated with loud discussions of whatever particularly nasty ailment is afflicting them this week. “How are your haemorrhoids Mavis?” is just one comment that my unwilling ears pick up on. I try to tune out the answer........... Their clucking reminds me of the time I spent as a youngster, collecting eggs in my uncle’s poultry shed, only marginally less interesting.

However, I am cheered a little from my suffering by watching an elderly gentleman attempting to send a text message with his mobile phone. The poor chap can barely hold the thing steady, but peers at it alternately at arms’ length, then at close quarters, squinting over the top of his spectacles. He concentrates hard with tongue poking out, and finally after much stabbing with geriatric fingers, concludes the operation and puts the phone away with evident relief. I am impressed that he has adopted today’s technology, but it seems strange to see these senior citizens with something that is often regarded as belonging to the young, hip and trendy. The only thing “hip” about these gentlefolk is the fact that many have had this joint replaced. I peer round, curious to see if any have embraced technology enough to sport an iPod, but no - all appliances affixed to wrinkly ears are utility beige, denoting hearing aids rather than MP3 players.

I begin to wonder if I’m verging on delirium, as I feel hot, and conversations drift in and out of my consciousness, but I am suddenly brought back to earth by two mothers with toddlers who plonk themselves either side of me and allow their offspring to cough and splutter in my face. As if that wasn’t enough, they each decide to read to their crotchety snotty children from different books, and I receive a stereophonic rendition of “Peter and Jane go Shopping” crossed with “Little Red Riding Hood”.

Rapidly getting to the end of my already-short tether, I am relieved at last when my name is called, and I can enter the doctor’s inner sanctum, a haven of peace amongst the bedlam of the waiting room............................

Now, here I sit at home, medication having been dispensed and commenced, while my lunch sits on my desk, brazenly taunting me: the antibiotics are to be taken an hour before food on an empty stomach, and I was already ravenous before visiting the surgery. The rumbles from my deprived belly are like thunder, and must surely register on the Richter Scale. The clock counts down the minutes until I can satisfy my tum’s urgent demands..........

I hate being ill - I consider it a waste of time. I could be completing projects at work, although I feel sufficiently wretched to warrant a couple of days R & R. Still, the one consolation of being off sick is that I can now do some self-indulgent creative blogging, rather than feel sorry for myself at work, so maybe some good DOES come out of a bad situation.........

Getting to grips........

While I was at work, I was thinking about what I would put in this, my first "proper" post. Never mind the fact that I was supposed to be working, (still can't grasp that concept....) as always, my mind was elsewhere. You see, I have the brain (and memory) of a goldfish.

Where was I? Ah yes. The content of my first posting. People say that first impressions count, so I wanted to make it a good 'un and thought that maybe I would paste in an article that I wrote for a magazine. Here is where things start to go awry.....

All my work to date was saved on my iMac. My OLD iMac. My old DEAD iMac............ Yes, you've got the gist - I hadn't backed up my stuff before the poor computer drew its last wheezing breath and clattered off to the local tip.

So let this be a salutory lesson to one and all, to BACK UP ! *shakes head*

The new 'pooter is a dream - for the first time in my computing life, I treated myself to a BRAND NEW Apple Mac Mini, which is just SO cute! It's tiny! So tiny that I often mistake it for my sandwich box on my desk. I can forsee problems extricating my cheese roll later on........

Have already edited my template, as it looked too old-fashioned, and have selected this one to test-drive for a while. If it looks too boring, I'll try another until I meet my perfect match. Have also just read back what I've written here, and so far, for a first impression, I'm doing.................really badly! Am talking to myself, flitting about all over the place subject-wise, and still have no idea what I'm going to write! Oh well - things can only get better.....................

The Bumbler returns..........

That's what you get for starting a Blog in the wee small hours, and not reading all the crud first.

An imbecile.

Now I've run out of time and have to go to work - in the *gasp* REAL WORLD, and will have to update m'blog properly tonight! Dang it, and I was feeling SO creative just now.......................

But before I go, just in case anyone has actually found this through a link I posted on my usual haven, HI THERE! If you're waiting for me to actually say something of note, you might have a long wait.

If, however, you want some of my usual inane ramblings, then I will add to this as soon as possible.

ElbOnline

ElbOnline

Gah! Where's the button for next episode?

ElbOnline: The Beginning

Well, I promised myself that I would start a blog someday, and today apparently, is THE day!

It's late on a Tuesday night, and I have probably drunk more cheap white wine than was good for me, but what the heck - it's made me stop procrastinating, and start blogging! At least I can still type coherently. At the moment.

So why start a blog?

For the same reason as many folk do, I guess - I am a frustrated writer, without the confidence to hit the publishers with my manuscripts. I have submitted several pieces to various magazines, but to date, nobody has picked up on the fact that I am THE NEXT BIG THING. Big - yep. Thing? I guess so, but as for the rest? Who knows?

I post on a fan site for an actor - maybe I'll tell you about it later, but not now - and I have had favourable reactions to my various postings, including my favourite piece entitled "Elbmow's Oddysey", a humourous account of the trip I made to Glasgow in January of this year. My usual style is with tongue firmly placed in cheek, as my philosophy on life is that it is too damned short to be miserable! Carpe Diem: seize the day! Or in other words, take the p*** out of anything and everything!

Okay then - I should abandon my pursuit of literary stardom for the meantime, as even Ernest Hemingway needed his beauty sleep. Fat lot of good it did him...............

Tomorrow is another day!