Archive for the Uncategorized Category

Episode 120. In which I am a terrible blogger.

Posted in diabetes, Henry, home, inanimate objects, people, Uncategorized, weather on September 8, 2011 by diabetses

Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned. It’s been about nine months since my last blog post. A lot has happened in that time.

Let me just cut you off at the pass here and reassure you that babies do not feature in those 9 months. At all. Complete lack of babies. No babies here.

So let me try and bring you up to date, month by month. I apologise if I forget anything, but do keep in mind, I’m not a very good person.

December 2010. *stares at screen for ten minutes* Well this is a good start. What the hell did I do in December? Oh, I know what I did. I went to bed on Christmas Eve happy, and woke up on Christmas Day with a big ugly burn on my arm. I slept on my hot water bottle, you see. Which burned my arm so I had a big blister. Mister had to go out and borrow a bandage from the first aid kit at the pub. This led to my new years resolution, on which more will follow.

January 2011. I started a new blog, called Clumsy Diabetic. Basically I am cataloguing all my self-inflicted injuries, and counting my new scars. If I get five new scars this year, I will, get a tattoo. *spoiler alert: I have more than five new scars already.*

February 2011. I got a manicure. I know this is lame. But I did. Mister went away for a week and while he was gone I just pottered around, as one does, and then I went out and got a manicure. I went to Lanes Health and Beauty, and had a nice relaxing half an hour. It was pretty.

March 2011. We moved house! From a flat, into a house, actually. With a garden. I know! It’s lovely.

April 2011. I don’t remember what happened then. Presumably we unpacked and got settled into the new house, the new commute and all that.

May 2011. May kind of sucked, and kind of didn’t, but I mostly want to cry when I think about it.  Our awesome cat, Henry, loved by everyone who met him, the cat most like a person that I will ever meet, I am sure, got sick very quickly and died. It was devastating, I was broken, and it hurt. It still hurts. I feel like I let him down, like it’s my fault, like if only I could hold him it would all be ok again. But he’s gone, and it’s shit. After a while, because the house felt so empty, we went to the RSPCA to start the process of adopting another cat, and happened to fall in love with two, a brother and sister, who we somehow managed to adopt really quickly. We named them Margot and Jerry, collectively known as The Leadbetters.

June 2011. I had my birthday! Happy birthday, me, you’re 32 now. I had a lovely, lovely day in the Northern Lights Scandinavian bar in Brighton, where they gave me a free shot of some liqueur that smelled very strongly of Fisherman’s Friend. It took me all afternoon to drink it, including watering it down as much as possible, and I still handed the glass back with more in the dregs than there would have been had it been, say strawberry cheesecake flavoured liqueur.

July 2011. Well, July was good. In July I was unemployed for a week, after my contract ended at my job, then I got another job, at the same place, and was employed again. Permanent contract this time, which is reassuring. And then, at the end of the month, I met Caitlin Moran. I went to an event for her book, which is brilliant in case you didn’t know already, and waited afterwards to get her to sign my copy. Which she did, very graciously. And she recognised my name from Twitter. And I totally spazzed out, because I love her work and her book and her sense of humour, and even just my name taking up a micron of her brainspace is amazing.

August 2011. August was my man’s 40th birthday month. I got him presents he had asked for, and we had a kind of dinner party, where I cooked a bunch of tapas type stuff that turned out quite nicely. Later in the month my mum visited, which was brilliant, and I made her a roast dinner, all by myself. And even later in the month, I got a Touchpad. It was a late birthday present from mister, he really is far too good for me. 🙂

September 2011. And here we are. So far, the rest of the year is planned out as a bunch of brilliant things. In a couple of weeks my sister comes to stay for a week. In early October I have to go to a conference in London which means I get to spend an evening with my best friend. And then at the end of October she is coming to stay for a weekend. In November my best friend from high school might be down here from scotland for a conference, and I will get to hang out with her, which would be cool beyond words. And then at Christmas, mister and I are going to Scotland. The flights are booked and everything, we’ll be up there for nine days in total. Mister has never been to my hometown, and I’m hoping to show him a proper white Christmas (one of the ones where you couldn’t leave the house even if you wanted to) and I can’t wait to show him where I grew up.

However, I will try to blog more.

Try.

I promise to try.

Diabetic moment of the day

So far ok, I think. Oh, I left the house without my insulin kit this morning and only realised when I was at the bus stop so I had to come all the way home for it. I am a twat. This isn’t news.

Episode 116. In which my sister and I are involved in a road rage incident, and come out on top.

Posted in home, people, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on March 2, 2010 by diabetses

The other weekend I sneaked up to Scotland to surprise my mum on her birthday.  I hadn’t been home since I moved to Brighton at the end of 2007, I know I’m a terrible daughter, but it’s very expensive and very time-consuming and very tiring.  But it was mum’s birthday and she wasn’t expecting me so I sneaked up for the weekend.

On Friday afternoon my sister picked me up from Dundee station and we headed off for Kirrie, to stay with my brother for the night, before sneaking into my mum’s kitchen on Saturday morning while she was at the supermarket to jump out at her doing jazz hands when she came in to put the shopping away.

So we’re hurtling along the dual carriageway, absolutely within the speed limit of course, when some cretin in a white van comes shooting up towards the back of a car on the inside lane and tries to cut us up to get around it.  My sister is an excellent driver, but she’d no intention of doing an emergency stop to let this gimp out, so she carries on at her own pace, so the fella trying to nudge in front of us starts doing a very rude hand gesture out the driver’s window.

Then he eased off and slipped back, and as he fell behind us I looked out my window at him with my WTF?! face, whilst saying aloud, “what the fuck?!” just in case he could lip-read.  He was following for a while and when the inside lane was clear he did it again, shot up the inside with his middle finger pressed against his window in what I can only assume was his own version of triumph.  He cut up the car in front of us, which promptly closed up behind him.  The car in front of him had no intention of breaking the speed limit so he found himself pretty effectively boxed in, the tailgater tailgated.

My sister and I, whilst finding it hilarious that he’d gotten himself into that situation which was probably driving him insane, were pretty astounded by this behaviour, some middle-aged workman in a white van chucking abuse at two young women in a car, for not encouraging him to drive like a dick. Crime doesn’t pay, kids, not when you’re trying to commit a crime against my sister, for she is hardcore.  This guy got off lucky.

Eventually he came out from between the cars and shot further up the inside lane, and at this point we had a pretty good brainstorming session going on about what his problem was.

“Is he having prostate trouble?”

“Maybe he’s just dying for a wee”

“Did daddy’s little girl get shouted at at work today, is the little baby upset?”

“Is daddy’s little girl crying?”

“Is it somebody’s time of the month?”

“Is daddy’s little girl having her first period?”

“Is someone feeling a little impotent today?”

At no point did the guy go out of our eyeline.  Despite driving like a mentalist, he never pulled far enough ahead to explain his behaviour.  If he was in some massive rush I could understand, I couldn’t forgive and I still wouldn’t have suggested letting the sod cut us up but I’d have understood why he was behaving that way if his wife had been rushed to hospital or his daughter was having a baby or he was Keanu in Speed or something.

Eventually we came to a point where cars drive in the outside lane to turn off to Forfar on the right.

The guy in the van clearly wasn’t familiar with the road because he got himself stuck in the right hand lane.  Nobody was letting him out.  We debated what we’d do on our way past, but in the end my little sister stayed classy.

She didn’t do the “yap yap yap” hand gesture, or hold up a piece of paper with his registration number written on it.  She just cruised on by and gave him a flirtatious little wave.

And although we saw him in the rear view mirror when he finally got out of the queue he never wanted to be in, and although we cruised along perfectly within the legal speed limit, he never caught up to us and we never saw him again.

The end.

Diabetic moment of the day

None today I don’t think, I had a salad and some boiled eggs for lunch which isn’t very carby and doesn’t demand a lot of insulin, so it was a pretty quiet insulin day.

On an unrelated note, is it possible to sprain your ankle without noticing?  My ankle keeps giving me stabbing pains but I don’t remember twisting it.  I really am some kind of special.

Episode 111. In which I tell you all my Favourite Quotes as they appear on Facebook, and explain what they’re all about.

Posted in Internet, people, Uncategorized with tags on August 29, 2009 by diabetses

I do like quotes.  I’ll hear something that someone says and it makes me chuckle, so I try to remember it and put it in my facebook Favourite Quotes, so that I don’t forget them.  The ones that are there as of today are the following.

  • When in doubt, use jazz hands

This is just a very good motto to live by.  Of course, you have to make the choice between jazz hands and spirit fingers.  But once you’ve made your decision, stick with it, and it’ll all come good.  Please keep in mind that if you don’t do the accompanying showbiz face then your jazz hands and your spirit fingers will mean nothing at all.

  • You’re so ETHNIC

Everyone lets their heritage show sometimes, be it through vocabulary, actions or reactions.  The best thing to do when this happens is inform them of it, just so they’re aware.  Also, it promotes pride in ones roots.  Be ethnic.  Be proud.

  • Get your gay on

We all need to get our gay on from time to time.  If you need to click your fingers in a Z shape in mid-air whilst wiggling your head on your neck in a similar fashion, do it.  If you need to camp it up to accentuate your innuendo, go for it.  If you need to be with someone of the same gender as yourself to be happy, get your gay on.  All the way on.

  • A lovely dream, all about the Times Law Reports

We can’t control our dreams.  Sometimes we can nudge them in a particular direction, like if a gang of scary biker mutants is chasing you and your legs won’t move so you jump up and fly away instead (to chuck in a bit of personal information there).  Every so often you’ll dream something work-related, and that’s not cool, but just make the most of it.

  • Christ, he’s only Jesus, he’s not Paul Daniels

My little sister and I have this ongoing conversation whereby sometimes Jesus borrows my mobile to text my sister and let her know he still wants her for a sunbeam.  At one point I was explaining this to a friend, and she expressed surprise that Jesus needed to borrow a mobile, she thought he could probably just make a text message appear on my sister’s phone just like that.  Fancy thinking Jesus did magic.  Christ, I said, he’s only Jesus, he’s not Paul Daniels.

  • Rainbows and kittens and meat on a stick

I have very little recollection as to where this phrase came from.  I think it was from a friend, a list of her favourite things.  Way better than that “raindrops on windows and whiskers on kittens” or whatever that other crap was.

  • In your face, diabetic

Unfortunately for me, this is becoming more of a catchphrase than a quote.  Basically, every time something yummy is consumed that I am not allowed to eat, my good friend the expatter is all up in my grill with “in your face, diabetic”.

  • They make hot dogs out of parsnips

When the expatter came to visit me in Brighton, for the first time I think, we went to a vegetarian pub for lunch.  5olly and dotmund chose to go to a ‘normal’ pub instead, and this phrase was one of several texted to us in what was presumably a show of superiority.  The expatter’s answer was “yeah, well, in your place they make parsnips out of hot dogs”.  Which makes every bit as much sense as the first version.

  • Of course I don’t like him, he ate his wife!

This statement was made by me, it is totally not true, it is a horrible thing to say, but I said it, and the sentence makes me laugh.  The man in question did not, in fact, eat his wife, and he does not carry her fingers round in a little bag for snacks.  It’s all fictional.  The product of my diseased mind.

  • Does he stink?  Yes he does.  No he doesn’t.  Yes he does

This should be sung to the tune of the Spiderman theme tune.  From the cartoon, not the movies.  It’s a good tune to use when you’re making up songs, as I do fairly often.  This one was sung to our cat, Henry.  I said he stank.  Then I thought that was mean, so I took it back.  Then I realised that as mean as it was, it was true, so I restated the fact.  That is all.

  • It’s granola, it’s not a fucking souffle

I like homemade granola.  At one point I was making some and I wasn’t sure if it was done, so I went to check on it.  5olly told me to be careful, maybe I shouldn’t open the oven before it’s ready.  As I said, it’s granola, not a fucking souffle.

  • I always get Eels and Elbows mixed up

The bands, he meant.

  • Mr: “I like the Kings of Leon, I couldn’t say why though”
    Me: “I couldn’t either”

This is self-explanatory.  I wouldn’t know the Kings of Leon if I fell over them, but I couldn’t resist a little dig.  It’s my way.

  • Me: “Why are we watching this?”
    Mr: “It’s either this or Extreme Fishing with Robson Green”

Sometimes all your choices suck.

  • Monster Jam! It’s like strawberry jam! BUT BIGGER!!!

He likes Monster Jam.  Me?  Not so much.

  • 6. What did you have for breakfast?
    Drugs in a bowl with milk and sugar.

This was someone’s answer to one of those stupid facebook quizzes.  I like it, though.

Diabetic Moment of the Day

Not today, not a lot, I feel weird, I feel like I used to feel when I was about 20 and had a hangover, which is not pleasant but not the worst I’ve ever felt, and yet given that I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since I had one bottle of San Miguel with dinner about two weeks ago, it’s Freaking Me Out.

Episode 110. In which I discuss journalism, and journalists.

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on August 10, 2009 by diabetses

Firstly, I apologise for the delay on this, it gets a bit serious in the middle and I wasn’t able to write it in one sitting, I just couldn’t find the words.  Not that it ended up any good, but this is just my opinion anyway, so what does it matter?

On 12 March 1996 I had a PE class in which we played volleyball.  I enjoyed volleyball, for some reason I was very good at it, but in this class a girl called Sarah and I both went for the same ball and clashed, and I went down on a badly twisted ankle.  I refused the offer of a wheelchair, not particularly wanting to go through the other half of the gym hall, in which the boys in the year above me were playing football, on what was essentially a normal blue canvas chair with wheels screwed onto the legs, and because I was going through a phase of wearing hiking boots (in the absence of a job to buy myself a pair of Docs) my ankle was well supported and I lasted the rest of the day as normal.

13 March 1996 was a cold day and the ground was icy.  There may have been the remnants of some snow on the ground that had frozen solid into spiky yet slippery terrain, and so I managed to persuade my parents to let me stay home.  It was a long walk to school, all up and down steep hills without handrails, so I stayed home and wrapped my ankle in a bandage soaked in Witch Hazel, and kept it propped up on the coffee table.

Around lunchtime reports started popping up of something awful happening in a primary school in Dunblane.  On that day, Thomas Hamilton walked into a primary school and murdered 16 children and one adult, injuring several others.  He fired 109 bullets, presumably including the one he used to kill himself.

The “Dunblane Massacre” as Wikipedia calls it (in conversation it’s referred to as “Dunblane” or “at Dunblane”) hit me hard.  It was the first event of its kind I’d seen.  And it happened while I was sitting on my arse whining about my sore ankle less than 70 miles away.  That it happened in a primary school is doubly awful because not only were very young children the victims, but very young children were the survivors, left to deal with what had happened and the fact that they could have been closer to a violent death than many of us will ever be.

A few months ago some journalists befriended some of the survivors of the ‘massacre’ on facebook and very shortly thereafter articles appeared in the tabloids stories of how they were betraying the memories of their fallen classmates, by drinking and smoking and having sex, and talking about drinking and smoking and having sex.  And boasting about drinking and smoking and having sex.

I can hardly even bring myself to address this issue.  The journalists involved are the worst kind of scum. I believe they should be sacked and never allowed to make their own decisions for the rest of their lives.  That they think it is appropriate to give the children that lived through a gun massacre a hard time for being 17 years old and acting like they’re 17 years old, and that they think that’s news, would imply that they are completely lacking in any kind of soul, morals or talent in their chosen field.

When I was growing up, there was a girl in the year above me who I barely knew, but she lived near my best friend so we were acquaintances, through primary school and high school.  Friendly acquaintances, I mean, we didn’t hang around together or make plans to meet up but if we bumped into each other on the way home from school we’d walk together, have a chat, I distinctly remember helping her fix her Walkman once, she couldn’t get the battery backing bit open.

When I was seventeen, a few months before I turned 18, she committed suicide.  She’d left school at this point so I no longer saw her around, and we’d not stayed in touch, never having been friends as such.  I come from a very small town and that kind of thing didn’t happen a lot, hadn’t happened at all in my memory, it hit people hard and for the first time suicide became something less than an abstract concept for me.  I couldn’t get my head around what would lead someone to do that.  It’s not that I was unsympathetic, far from it, but I’d never had cause to wonder about a particular person, who I kind of knew, and it’s not like I was thinking “of all the people I know I thought she was the least suicidal one,” it’s that I had never thought of suicide in any context I had any experience of.

One day when I was walking home, two men approached me and asked me if I had a school yearbook for the previous year.  I didn’t, but I suggested they ask the teacher who was the yearbook editor type person.  At this point they looked at each other and one got out his press pass, and held it up, smug as you like.  I think I was supposed to be impressed.  Maybe I was supposed to offer to obtain the yearbook they wanted.  What actually happened was I wondered what they wanted, realised that they were trying to find out about the girl who had recently died.  This realisation, combined with the look of utter self-assurance on that wanker’s face, disgusted me beyond belief, and I walked on.

Shortly before my own sixth year finished, the journalists were back.  A feature appeared in the Daily Record about towns where the teenagers were out of control.  One of them was my hometown.  Apparently the teenagers in my hometown (i.e. me and my friends) were drunken louts. We hung around in the town square, and jumped onto passing cars in an attempt at bonnet-surfing, screaming obscenities the whole way.  One boy, who had a car, drove around slowly taking booze orders from the others, before driving to an off-licence and coming back laden down with alcoholic goodies.  There was a photo and everything, with part of the registration number pixelated out.

Everything kicked off shortly thereafter.  What started it all was the mother of the boy in the car, whose car was in the picture, taking offence at the article.  The boy had actually stopped to talk to his friends and, if memory serves, the other members of his football team, which had just finished playing in the school gym hall.  He took orders alright, and drove straight off to the nearest McDonalds to bring back their burgers and fries – unhealthy maybe, but nothing illegal or dangerous about it.  And as for the bonnet-surfing, a car had clipped a boy who was crossing the road, he landed on his hands on the bonnet and, fair enough, swore at the driver to be more careful.

That year, we produced an official yearbook and an unofficial yearbook. The official version had caricatures on the cover of that year’s 6th years.  The unofficial version had that very article on the back cover, and on the front cover was a collage of various controversial newspaper and magazine clippings.

But back to the journalists.

I’ve had one personal experience with journalists, in which they tried to get me to help them dig up dirt on a friend (because she certainly counted as a friend in that situation) who had gone through something (and to this day I don’t know what, it’s not my business just like it’s not yours) that she couldn’t bring herself to survive.

I’ve had one second-hand experience with journalists, in which they created a work of fiction, or possibly a “dramatisation based on real events,” that involved slandering my friends and classmates to make the point that me and mine were awful people, purely because of our age.

This Dunblane thing disgusted me beyond words. Teenagers will behave like teenagers, they have the right to do it, and say “I told you so” if you want, but don’t pretend you behaved any better at the same age. If you did, you were in the minority and probably spent most of your time wishing you weren’t.  If someone’s gone through something like those children went through, and still managed to grow up to behave like a normal teenager, then as far as I’m concerned they should get their very own park bench to drink on, they shouldn’t be held up as failures, in some sorry excuse for news with a filthy undertone of “did they deserve to survive, given how they turned out?”.

I’m sorry this has taken me a while to post, and I’m sorry that it’s utterly, utterly abysmally written.  I don’t really know how to express myself on this point.  It’s all a bit emotive, for several reasons that I hope I’ve vaguely shaded in, if not properly explained.

My point is this. If you’re going to be a journalist, try to maintain some kind of humanity while you do it. By all means, tell us what’s going on in the world. But don’t dig up dirt on the victim, that’s a very rapey thing to do. Don’t make up lies about the innocent, that’s a very corrupt and lazy thing to do.  And don’t act holier-than-thou, that shows a shocking lack of self-awareness and understanding of both your subject and your audience.

Diabetic moment of the day

Today I tried to make cookies with honey instead of sugar.  They’re not very nice, but they’ve got honey in so I’ll still be eating them.  And the flat smells of warm cinnamon now.  I also bought reduced sugar raspberry jam, so that’s breakfast sorted all week.

Episode 109. In which I discuss current affairs.

Posted in people, Uncategorized on June 27, 2009 by diabetses

The fact is I haven’t blogged in a long time.  I don’t even know how long.  But a long time.  The other day something happened that I had an opinion of that I thought was blogworthy, and I thought I’d fire this monster up and get it going again.  Then more things happened, so this is a combination post.  Two deaths and an assault.

It has not been a nice news week.

So here it is.  Chronologically.

Perez Hilton.

Perez Hilton has made his career out of being nasty about people, making snide, petty comments about people, about their looks or their careers or their talents or their social lives, being judgmental and generally horrible about people.  This week, after quite some time spent being horrible about the Black Eyed Peas, he was at an event they were at, some things were said, and some guy with the BEP crowd punched Perez.

Perez called the police, they didn’t come quickly enough so Perez tweeted that he’d been assaulted, posted pictures online, and now he’s suing for assault and, I believe, humiliation.

I have a problem with this.

Assault is not OK.  Nobody should get hit.  I’m a firm believer in people having done unto them what they’ve done unto others, particularly where the victim was innocent and/or defenceless and/or smaller and/or had reason to expect better of the attacker, but in an ideal world nobody would get hit in the first place and therefore nobody would need to get hit back.

However, humiliation?  Really?  You’re going to sue someone for humiliating you, when the reason the whole world is aware of what happened is because you told them?  When you posted pictures on the internet so everyone could look at you?  When everything that you have achieved in the last however many years was done on the back of humiliating other people?  I don’t think so.  You can take that and shove it, Perez, you’re a publicity hound.

Apparently he actually said he didn’t tweet for the publicity.  Who on earth is fooled by that?  If you text your friends, that’s one thing.  If you tweet your X thousand followers (I do not care enough to check how many he actually has, I’m not one of them) knowing full well that amongst those followers are (at least) several journalists, then it is your fault when people find out about the fact that you got twatted as a direct result of your bullying.

In conclusion, if Perez Hilton gets any damages out of the humiliation side of this law suit, then the law’s an ass.

Hilton’s a hypocrite regardless of the outcome.

Farrah Fawcett.

Farrah Fawcett passed away on Thursday, after a long battle with anal cancer.  I don’t know anything about this woman at all, I know of a couple of roles she played as an actress and that her hairstyle was iconic.  However, knowing so little about her makes it all the more tragic to me, somehow.  Any death is awful, of course, and the sooner someone finds a way to stop people dying of cancer, which is a vicious disease, the better.  But in Farrah Fawcett, I’m not mourning an actress, because I wasn’t a fan of her work.  I’m not mourning a fashion icon, because I never actually liked her hairstyle.  I’m mourning a woman who, despite being massively famous, I never heard anything about other than the two things I just mentioned.  Famous people who are famous these days without being scandalous, or publicity whores, who are just well-known without coming across as desperate for attention, are rare.  And it makes me respect all the more those who maintain a life in the real world, or at least not in the tabloids.

Don’t get me wrong, not being a massive fan I’m not in actual mourning.  But I can respect her as a human being who went through something awful and she is in my thoughts.

Michael Jackson.

On Thursday, Michael Jackson died of cardiac arrest, seemingly without warning, at the age of 50.  And now half the world’s gone all weird.

I was never a Michael Jackson fan.  I did not like his music, and I thought he danced like a twat.  If, right now, you’re thinking anything that starts with the word ‘but’ then I would ask you to just stop right there.  Whatever you’re about to finish with, whatever achievement or memory or innovation you’re about to spit out, that’s what he was to YOU, not to ME, and this being the internet, I’ve just as much right to an opinion as anyone else.  You may think I’m wrong but then I think you chose a role model based on weirdness.

I have no idea whether Michael Jackson was guilty or innocent of the things he was accused of.  I do know, however, that he was seemingly incapable of living in the real world.  He was lucky, privileged, talented if you were a fan, he had everything he could have wanted, and instead of making himself a life anyone would be envious of, he insisted on constructing a fantasy world to live in.  Not content with being too good to spend his life in an office or on a building site or in a call centre, he decided he was too good to breathe our air.

He had his troubles recently and he leaves behind him three small children, who will now have to learn what the real world is in the absence of the father who prevented them from having to live in it while he was around.  I am not happy he died, I do not laugh at his death, I do not take this opportunity to accuse him of the most horrific of crimes, because I genuinely do not know whether he was accused justly or whether his own lack of ability to handle reality was turned against an innocent man by opportunists.

Neither am I wearing sack cloth and ashes, wailing in the street, crying on NBC or holding a vigil in his honour.

I did not know the man.  Let’s be honest, nobody knew the man.  To put a definition on ‘knowing Michael Jackson’, if you never met him and he never called you by name, or remembered your existence when you were out of earshot without being reminded of it, then you didn’t know him either.  He was utterly unique and he constructed a world around himself that few can comprehend in itself, never mind translate what was on the other side of it into the terminology of the life that the vast majority of us know.

I read an interview this week with a man who claimed to have known Michael Jackson, and he said they’d sneaked him out of his hotel to wander around shops and suchlike, because he was so eager to know how it felt to be normal.  He had every opportunity to feel normal.  Britney Spears is huge, she used to be massive for her music, then her scandalous lifestyle, now her efforts to get back on the straight and narrow, but she still goes to Starbucks.  The Queen still goes to Ascot and holds hands with her husband to sing Auld Lang Syne and breathes the same air as her subjects.  Michael Jackson wore a surgical mask, and allegedly slept in an oxygen tank, and called all three of his children after himself.

I do not mourn Michael Jackson for the things he did which people have interpreted as the miracles required for his sanctification.  His children are in my thoughts, and I am not happy he died, but I am not capable of putting either his life or his death into a context that relates even vaguely to my own sphere of reference, and so the outpourings of grief strike me as ridiculous.

That’s just my opinion.
And that’s the kind of week it takes to get me to blog again.

Diabetic moment of the day

Today I had a caramel frappucino from Starbucks.  It was sugary, but it was icy and it was lovely.  Today was a hot day and I am sunburned.  But I am not sunstroked, because I had my caramel frappucino.  And I’d do it again.

Episode 103. In which it’s always just firefighting

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on March 24, 2009 by diabetses

I stayed late at work tonight, I thought I could get a lot done.  I’m slowly clearing my desk, the piles build up again of course but a little less each time.  So today I thought, I can get a lot done in an extra hour, maybe clear a little bit of space that I can keep clear and maybe add to another day.

What did I manage to do in my extra hour in the office?

I managed to find an hour’s worth of problems I didn’t know about before, so I made no headway whatsoever in the backlog I’m pushing to get through.

This is what happens every time I work late, it seems.  Maybe I need to stay two hours late, so I can spend an hour doing what I need to do and the second hour on the firefighting.

Or maybe then I would just find twice as many problems.

Maybe I should just stop looking so closely.

Diabetic moment of the day

None, again, look at me, I rock.

Episode 89. In which we go out for steak

Posted in food, Uncategorized on March 11, 2009 by diabetses

The steak was very nice, but we got home very late and went straight to bed.

Diabetic moment of the day

Shooting up in the pub.  That’s always a winner.