Blogging is such sweet sorrow

We watched a "best of live at the Apollo" last night. It was funny in places but I was reminded of a quip on some other show saying ".... that was as thin as Michael McIntyre's material" (http://www.comedy.co.uk/guide/tv/michael_mcintyre_roadshow/press/) still it was light entertainment.
A clip of Ed Byrne was aired where he trotted out some amusing observations about the differences between men and women, still funny to hear them a second time, one such observation, posed as a question from men to women; "you know when you ask us what we are thinking....", well I won't just repeat the joke in writing, since without the lyrical southern Irish tones and the cheeky wink at the camera, it may fall flat. Suffice to say, men tink about nutten ;-)

Do we really think about nothing? I'm afraid to say it's not true in my head. It never stops churning over and over, analysing, questioning, postulating. The noise can be as suffocating as it is intoxicating. I rarely remember my dreams and I think it is probably because my brain is completely exhausted so, when I sleep, it honestly needs a rest. In fact my inner narrative is so profligate it has often deigned to share it's overflow with random expressions to anyone within earshot. I have, over the years, learned to curb this trait. How am I doing? I seem to notice this trait in others and tend to be more tolerant than many as I too hear the noises.

Reading other's blogs, as I do, I still question the purpose of my own. In general some blogs are review digests, some are issue related discussion boards, many others also seem to have a purpose. Not sure what the purpose of mine is. Is it just another valve with which to release the noise from my head? Is it a necessary chore that serves to allow the peace and quiet with which I struggle to surround myself?

Sent from my iPad

Requiem for Stevie

Before this gets too morbid let me explain that Stevie was one of our chickens. When we had first released her from the box into our garden, before her wings were clipped, she had made a stunning bid for freedom.  She ran like a headless ... well you get the message, she ran recklessly and then launched into the air and almost cleared the border to freedom but crashed spectacularly into a thorn bush and lay there bleeding, wounded and helpless.  It reminded me of that immortal scene from The Great Escape with Steve MacQueen's attempt to jump the barbed wire.  Hence Stevie was named.  She took time to find her place in the pecking order but eventually it was just her and Goldie left as our pets.

This week, in front of the office window in our garden, Anne saw a dog savagely attack and kill Stevie.  This was desperately sad as she had just established herself as a great little layer, the chicken I mean, and was a much loved part of the family, as with most pets.  

The neighbours were mortified when they realised it was their little beast but the damage had been done.  Yesterday I fetched 2 pals for Goldie and they are settling in to their new home.  No names yet, although the Sussex Star - a White one with black extremities - immediately tried to establish herself at the top of the pecking order by launching into a spectacular hen-fight with Goldie. I'm thinking, Tyson!