Day (T-2): Amendment

Yesterday, by 'four' I actually meant 'three'.

As I said, I always accept when I'm wrong: I was wrong...

...Rarely do I accept the blame: It wasn't my fault...

...I enjoy inserting Shaggy lyrics into my writing: 'It wasn't me'...

...though obviously it was, and I just miscalculated.

Numerical and temporal specificities aside, as of today only two itchy days of immobility remain. Couldn't be happier. Hence the scattiness. Bombastic.

Day (T-4): The North

It’s been a while. There is no denying that I royally failed to achieve anything close to frequency in my blogging attempts, and that – in spite of a long-held aspiration – the word ‘prolific’ couldn’t be less apt to describe my writing. Let’s face it, ‘prolific’ was a long shot, and I shouldn’t have set my standards so bombastically high. That’s right, bombastic: bad adjective, tough one to live up to when you’re on crutches, and ‘they’ certainly wouldn’t have thought Shaggy so ‘mmm fantastic’ had he been hobbling along to his claims of being Mr. Lover Lover. So how was I – crippled, sedentary, wouldn’t ‘catch me on the counter’ – to even begin to expect such accolades in the art of the article when, post-day 14, the daily demands of my degree were to once again take centre stage, but this time performed at half the speed? Granted, I could have re-prioritised, but given the old academic ardour, that just ‘wasn’t me’.  

I accept my failures, and this is no exception. But those who know me will also be aware that I rarely accept the blame. Again, this is no exception. The fault lies with my dissertation; I won’t bore you with the details, but believe me, it’s a bloody nuisance. So sorry to disappoint, there were so many exciting things to report on Parker’s Piece over the last few weeks: student protests, an army of yummy mummies equipped with Ralph Lauren pushchairs, a showdown between the burliest bus drivers, heroic (btw I’m biased) taxi drivers and anal traffic wardens, and of course, the snow. Alas, what’s done is done; the cast comes off in four itchy days and all of this ends before it ever really began. Thanks to the disso, I left you all in the dark, and watched my Pulitzer slowly fade into the distance. I hope it’s proud of itself.  

Rant over; to be fair, I still have a window. I may no longer be a resident of 4 Park Terrace, and although only four days remain for me as an invalid, my observations are indefinitely of the invalid variety. And thus, the show goes on.

I’m now installed up North. I reject insults about the North being grim, though I will admit that in the deep mid-winter, my God, it is bleak. So far, I’ve observed nothing as racy as frosty winds making moan (whichever of the many many nuanced meanings one may derive from this), and as the fluffy white stuff has melted to reveal treacherous, crutch-unfriendly sheets of ice, it’s less ‘snow on snow’ than ‘crow on crow’ as the hungry scavengers battle it out for the last scraps of road kill before heading off in search of warmer climes. Jealous, partly.

Despite the abundance of windows available to me here, it’s going to take a little more strenuous strain of musing to offer you something captivating in this most secluded spot of Hadrian’s Wall Country, but my days, I will try. If it comes to it, I’m willing to go so far as to set up hilarity-ensuing scenes around the garden, complete with actors, props and a live studio audience to up their performance...If not for your entertainment and wellbeing (which would once again precariously situate me on the cusp of failure), then at least, taking a leaf out of the shaggyman’s book, I am going behind the back of the dissertation that’s kept me whipped for so long, letting my eyes and fingers wander, and flirting with the thrill of taking a break to write about absolutely nothing of any importance. Bombastic.