Giggles has asked me to take part in a me-me or a mi-mi thing-thing.
I wasn’t entirely sure what it was, so I looked it up and I read that “a meme ( pronounced /mi:mi/) is a unit or element of cultural ideas, symbols or practices that transmit from one mind to another through speech, gestures, rituals, or other imitable phenomenon”
I was more confused still after reading that! So I thought I’d just do exactly what the rules say, which is open the nearest book to page 46 then write out the fifth sentence on that page, and also the next five on that page. Still not very clear but here goes.
Nearest book is The Tales of Beedle the Bard by J.K.Rowling. It’s her book of five fairy tales, and the book shop girl told me that it’s one of this Christmas's biggest selling books for young people – like me! Now let’s look at page 45, no 46! Silly me!
The warlock gloried in his indifference and the sagacity that had produced it. ( oo-err! Some long words there!)
The first freshness of youth waned, and the warlock’s peers began to wed, and then to bring forth children.
“Their hearts must be husks” he sneered inwardly, as he observed the antics of the young parents around him, shriveled by the demands of these mewling offspring!”
Now I have a problem. The book is quite a teenie weanie one and I’ve got to the bottom of the page. Actually the two next sentences are quite short, so I’ll copy them from page 46
And once again he congratulated himself upon the wisdom of his early choice.
In due course the warlock’s parents died.
Now, if you have the faintest idea what that’s all about you are very clever indeed. I haven’t a clue!
I’m supposed to ask five more people to have a go, but I don’t really know everyone well enough yet. Keith said I should ask for volunteers so that’s what I’ll do. I know he’s been tagged (technical term) by Lucy to have a go so I can’t ask him.
I hope I got it right!
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13.12.08
12.12.08
Sunday Scribblings - 'I knew instantly'
I knew instantly that I’d like it. I needed a little piece of music for my bloggie so I typed the word Fairy into a site which Keith told me about and up it popped! A song called Fairy Rain by someone called Yoko Asada. As you know I love fairies, but I don’t think I’ve told you that I like rain too.
Do you like walking in the rain? It’s fun. There is nothing I like more than jumping into puddles and looking up into the sky so the raindrops tickle my nose.
About the song.I’ve listened and listened but I can’t hear any words about fairies. Actually I can’t make out a single word!
Do you think perhaps she singing it in Fairy-ish? A language that only those little winged wonders understand. (Little winged wonders!! I like that)
Talking of other languages, someone came up to me the other day and asked me something, but I couldn’t understand her. That’s it really. I don’t know why I mentioned it.
Anyway, I decided that although I can’t make out the words of Fairy Rain I’d keep it because it’s such a pretty song. I hope you like it too.
Ps. I don’t really believe that there is such a language as Fairy-ish! I’m not that stupid. Fairies speak English! Don't they?
Do you like walking in the rain? It’s fun. There is nothing I like more than jumping into puddles and looking up into the sky so the raindrops tickle my nose.
About the song.I’ve listened and listened but I can’t hear any words about fairies. Actually I can’t make out a single word!
Do you think perhaps she singing it in Fairy-ish? A language that only those little winged wonders understand. (Little winged wonders!! I like that)
Talking of other languages, someone came up to me the other day and asked me something, but I couldn’t understand her. That’s it really. I don’t know why I mentioned it.
Anyway, I decided that although I can’t make out the words of Fairy Rain I’d keep it because it’s such a pretty song. I hope you like it too.
Ps. I don’t really believe that there is such a language as Fairy-ish! I’m not that stupid. Fairies speak English! Don't they?
9.12.08
Tall cop, fat cop
Hey listen to this. Well, you know I’ve got a new car? Come to think about it I didn’t tell you about it, so I guess you don’t! Well, I have. It’s a pink Smart! It’s so cute I smile every time I see it.
As I was saying, listen to this (I think you say ‘listen up’ in the States – at least they do in the movies)
Last night I was volunteer driver when I went with my friend to the pub. This means I can’t have drink. After I dropped her off I made my way home. It was very dark and it was raining so I drove very carefully.
Well, there I was singing away when I was suddenly half-blinded by a blue flashing light in my mirror. I thought it couldn’t be a fire engine because it was too small, and it wasn’t an ambulance because it didn’t have ECNALUBMA written on the front. Why do they do that? I mean you should be able to tell if you have a blood- wagon behind you without them having to write it backwards for the sake of your mirror. Also if I was helping with an emergency in the street (I am a qualified first-aider don’t forget) and had to call an ambulance, I wouldn’t recognise it because it would just look like a truck delivering Ecnalubmas.
Where was I? Ah, I worked out it was a cop car (I love saying that! It sounds far better than saying police car. I got that from the movies too). The road is very narrow so it couldn't get past me. It occurred to me after a mile or so that perhaps they wanted me to stop, so I pulled over and dropped the window. I didn’t actually DROP the window of course, I wound it down.
“Good evening boys” I said, but they didn’t smile. One of them said rather crossly “Get out of the car please love”
Well I don’t like being called love. I don’t mind when my Gran says it, but I don’t expect it from someone I don’t know. “I’m not your love “I said. In retrospect (that means in hindsight) it was probably not the right thing to say, because they looked slightly rattled. So I got out.
The conversation went something like this.
Me “Why have you stopped me?”
Tall cop “Because you were driving too slowly”
Me “I was driving carefully because I am not used to the car”
Chubby cop “Is this your car love - sorry, madam” (sarcastic turd)
Me “Not really"
Well that was almost certainly the wrong thing to say. Actually it was the right thing because it actually belongs to my Father’s car dealership and he lets me use it as if it were mine, but under the circumstances it was the wrong thing to say. I explained the situation and he asked if I was properly insured to drive it. I said I thought I probably was, and again I think I should have thought it out before I opened my cake-hole ( If my mum reads this she’ll tell me off for using a vulgar expression!)
So the tall cop got on his walkie-talkie thing and spoke to someone called Over, until he reluctantly conceded that I was permitted to drive it (did you spot my joke – someone called Over!)
Then to add insult to injury fat cop asked if I had been drinking. I should have just said no. After all, that would have been a truthful answer. Instead I said “Well, I have spent all evening in the pub” So he went back to his car and got this thing you breath in to – a breathalyser I think it’s called.
Fat cop “Blow in here until I tell you to stop”
Me “I’d rather not I don’t know where it’s been”
Tall cop “Just blow madam”
Well I blew as best I could but it seems I wasn’t blowing hard enough. The thing is, at finishing school (I love saying that – it sounds so posh!) we were told never to blow out our cheeks because it looks unladylike. “One puffs, not blows ladies” Anyway, I gave in and did as I was told, and they reluctantly agreed that I had no trace of alcohol on my breath.
Eventually I got away. They said they wanted to leave first as they did not want to get stuck behind me for miles as they hoped to be back in time for breakfast.
That’s it really. Now I r
ead it back it’s not that interesting, so if you haven’t made it to the end I’ll understand, not that you know I understand because you won’t have read it!
Here is a photo of my car. Bye bye.
As I was saying, listen to this (I think you say ‘listen up’ in the States – at least they do in the movies)
Last night I was volunteer driver when I went with my friend to the pub. This means I can’t have drink. After I dropped her off I made my way home. It was very dark and it was raining so I drove very carefully.
Well, there I was singing away when I was suddenly half-blinded by a blue flashing light in my mirror. I thought it couldn’t be a fire engine because it was too small, and it wasn’t an ambulance because it didn’t have ECNALUBMA written on the front. Why do they do that? I mean you should be able to tell if you have a blood- wagon behind you without them having to write it backwards for the sake of your mirror. Also if I was helping with an emergency in the street (I am a qualified first-aider don’t forget) and had to call an ambulance, I wouldn’t recognise it because it would just look like a truck delivering Ecnalubmas.
Where was I? Ah, I worked out it was a cop car (I love saying that! It sounds far better than saying police car. I got that from the movies too). The road is very narrow so it couldn't get past me. It occurred to me after a mile or so that perhaps they wanted me to stop, so I pulled over and dropped the window. I didn’t actually DROP the window of course, I wound it down.
“Good evening boys” I said, but they didn’t smile. One of them said rather crossly “Get out of the car please love”
Well I don’t like being called love. I don’t mind when my Gran says it, but I don’t expect it from someone I don’t know. “I’m not your love “I said. In retrospect (that means in hindsight) it was probably not the right thing to say, because they looked slightly rattled. So I got out.
The conversation went something like this.
Me “Why have you stopped me?”
Tall cop “Because you were driving too slowly”
Me “I was driving carefully because I am not used to the car”
Chubby cop “Is this your car love - sorry, madam” (sarcastic turd)
Me “Not really"
Well that was almost certainly the wrong thing to say. Actually it was the right thing because it actually belongs to my Father’s car dealership and he lets me use it as if it were mine, but under the circumstances it was the wrong thing to say. I explained the situation and he asked if I was properly insured to drive it. I said I thought I probably was, and again I think I should have thought it out before I opened my cake-hole ( If my mum reads this she’ll tell me off for using a vulgar expression!)
So the tall cop got on his walkie-talkie thing and spoke to someone called Over, until he reluctantly conceded that I was permitted to drive it (did you spot my joke – someone called Over!)
Then to add insult to injury fat cop asked if I had been drinking. I should have just said no. After all, that would have been a truthful answer. Instead I said “Well, I have spent all evening in the pub” So he went back to his car and got this thing you breath in to – a breathalyser I think it’s called.
Fat cop “Blow in here until I tell you to stop”
Me “I’d rather not I don’t know where it’s been”
Tall cop “Just blow madam”
Well I blew as best I could but it seems I wasn’t blowing hard enough. The thing is, at finishing school (I love saying that – it sounds so posh!) we were told never to blow out our cheeks because it looks unladylike. “One puffs, not blows ladies” Anyway, I gave in and did as I was told, and they reluctantly agreed that I had no trace of alcohol on my breath.
Eventually I got away. They said they wanted to leave first as they did not want to get stuck behind me for miles as they hoped to be back in time for breakfast.
That’s it really. Now I r
ead it back it’s not that interesting, so if you haven’t made it to the end I’ll understand, not that you know I understand because you won’t have read it!Here is a photo of my car. Bye bye.
7.12.08
sunday scribblings - tradition
Now this is a tradition I love. Hanging up a bunch of mistletoe at Christmas! I got mine yesterday and I’m eagerly awaiting my first mistletoe kiss of the season.
The priest popped round just now with a leaflet thing about Christmas services at his church, and I saw him looking at it. He had me worried for a moment I can tell you! His wasn’t the first kiss I had in mind.
I thought I’d try a write a serious composition about mistletoe (are bits of writing still called compositions like they were at school?) so I looked up on that wicki-picki-poodle thing. Wow! It was full of Latin words and ancient history. Hardly a thing about kissing! I did find out that it’s the national emblem of Oklahoma – I bet Missy gets sore lips this time of year!
So I’ll stick to what I already know. I know that you are allowed one kiss for every berry on the sprig. Some years this is good, some years this is bad and I have to buy artificial ones! One year berries kept falling off on the bus going home! What a swizz! I also know that you are supposed to remove a berry after each kiss. I don’t really hold with that tradition so I don’t stick to it. (What do you call a tradition that’s no longer a tradition? I thought of extradition but that means something completely different)
I heard on the radio today that in England we get lot of our mistletoe from France. I also heard that you have to ‘French kiss’ under French mistletoe. NO THANKS! Tongues – yuc! It’s especially bad if the kissee has been indulging in that other French tradition, chewing garlic.
That reminds me. I recently bought a lovely necklace. Well I think it’s lovely. It’s like large brown balls on a string. Someone said I looked very French so I said ‘what do you mean?’, and he said it looked like I had a string of onions around my neck. I didn’t understand, so he said ‘that’s what the traditional image of a Frenchman looks like’. I said that when I was in Paris last year I didn’t see any girls using stinky onions as jewellery.
Anyway, my sprig of mistletoe looks fantastic and I’ve been practising puckering up in front of the mirror. I’m ready lads!
Keith has written a story about me for Sunday Scribblings. I've not read it yet, I'm saving it for later. If I've done this right you can click here and find yourself there - if you see what mean
The priest popped round just now with a leaflet thing about Christmas services at his church, and I saw him looking at it. He had me worried for a moment I can tell you! His wasn’t the first kiss I had in mind.I thought I’d try a write a serious composition about mistletoe (are bits of writing still called compositions like they were at school?) so I looked up on that wicki-picki-poodle thing. Wow! It was full of Latin words and ancient history. Hardly a thing about kissing! I did find out that it’s the national emblem of Oklahoma – I bet Missy gets sore lips this time of year!
So I’ll stick to what I already know. I know that you are allowed one kiss for every berry on the sprig. Some years this is good, some years this is bad and I have to buy artificial ones! One year berries kept falling off on the bus going home! What a swizz! I also know that you are supposed to remove a berry after each kiss. I don’t really hold with that tradition so I don’t stick to it. (What do you call a tradition that’s no longer a tradition? I thought of extradition but that means something completely different)
I heard on the radio today that in England we get lot of our mistletoe from France. I also heard that you have to ‘French kiss’ under French mistletoe. NO THANKS! Tongues – yuc! It’s especially bad if the kissee has been indulging in that other French tradition, chewing garlic.
That reminds me. I recently bought a lovely necklace. Well I think it’s lovely. It’s like large brown balls on a string. Someone said I looked very French so I said ‘what do you mean?’, and he said it looked like I had a string of onions around my neck. I didn’t understand, so he said ‘that’s what the traditional image of a Frenchman looks like’. I said that when I was in Paris last year I didn’t see any girls using stinky onions as jewellery.
Anyway, my sprig of mistletoe looks fantastic and I’ve been practising puckering up in front of the mirror. I’m ready lads!
Keith has written a story about me for Sunday Scribblings. I've not read it yet, I'm saving it for later. If I've done this right you can click here and find yourself there - if you see what mean
29.11.08
Sunday Scribblings - A Winter's Tale
This is a true tale about winter. Well, an almost true tale, but I have added extra bits here and there otherwise it would be pretty boring!
When I was small, well not very small, but smaller than I am now, my mum’s church used to send us children to visit the old people in the village just before Christmas - people like my friend Keith!
We used to make cards at Sunday School and wrap up bars of chocolate and things. I remember one old lady; her name was Lady Dorothy Battersby-Smythe. (Actually it was old Dottie Smith and that was the first of my ideas to make the tale more interesting!). Well, I went into her drawing room and we sat in front of a roaring log fire crackling away in an inglenook fireplace (my nose is growing! To be honest is was an ancient electric fire in her kitchen)
She told me that when she was a girl Santa Claus used to come down her chimney on Christmas Eve when she was asleep. I told her that he came to me too, but she said that one year something unusual happened.
While I think about, what do you think about Father Christmas? I worked out for myself at a very young age that there wasn’t such a person as this jolly old man with a beard and a beer belly wearing a red frock. I mean, all that talk about Santa’s little helpers making toys in a workshop was nonsense. He didn’t make the Barbie doll which I got one year any more than he is busy knocking out Wii machines right now, I think Nintendo would have something to say if he was. But I always had a sneaking feeling that there was some strange force popping little bits and pieces into my stocking after my Dad had crept in with some presents from the shop. I never said anything; I hid them under my bed. Now just suppose there is someone or something out there that we adults don’t know about and kids keep to themselves?
Now, back to the Winter’s Tale. On second thoughts I don’t think I’ll carry on. As I said it was a bit boring and I don’t really like lying to make it more interesting. If it was a piece of fiction like Harry Potter, then making things up is okay, but mine was a true story. So I think I’ll stop here.
.
.
When I was small, well not very small, but smaller than I am now, my mum’s church used to send us children to visit the old people in the village just before Christmas - people like my friend Keith!
We used to make cards at Sunday School and wrap up bars of chocolate and things. I remember one old lady; her name was Lady Dorothy Battersby-Smythe. (Actually it was old Dottie Smith and that was the first of my ideas to make the tale more interesting!). Well, I went into her drawing room and we sat in front of a roaring log fire crackling away in an inglenook fireplace (my nose is growing! To be honest is was an ancient electric fire in her kitchen)
She told me that when she was a girl Santa Claus used to come down her chimney on Christmas Eve when she was asleep. I told her that he came to me too, but she said that one year something unusual happened.
While I think about, what do you think about Father Christmas? I worked out for myself at a very young age that there wasn’t such a person as this jolly old man with a beard and a beer belly wearing a red frock. I mean, all that talk about Santa’s little helpers making toys in a workshop was nonsense. He didn’t make the Barbie doll which I got one year any more than he is busy knocking out Wii machines right now, I think Nintendo would have something to say if he was. But I always had a sneaking feeling that there was some strange force popping little bits and pieces into my stocking after my Dad had crept in with some presents from the shop. I never said anything; I hid them under my bed. Now just suppose there is someone or something out there that we adults don’t know about and kids keep to themselves?
Now, back to the Winter’s Tale. On second thoughts I don’t think I’ll carry on. As I said it was a bit boring and I don’t really like lying to make it more interesting. If it was a piece of fiction like Harry Potter, then making things up is okay, but mine was a true story. So I think I’ll stop here.
.
.
23.11.08
it snowed today
It snowed today
hip hip hooray!
I built a snowman,
rode my sleigh
I made some snow
into a ball.
Lobbed it ‘cross
the garden wall
It hit someone!
To my relief
the guy I hit
was my friend Keith
When he turned
it’s me he saw
“That’s it” he said
“It’s snowball war”
Then he chased me
‘cross the grass
Slipped on ice
fell on his... bottom
I laughed my socks off!
hip hip hooray!
I built a snowman,
rode my sleigh
I made some snow
into a ball.
Lobbed it ‘cross
the garden wall
It hit someone!
To my relief
the guy I hit
was my friend Keith
When he turned
it’s me he saw
“That’s it” he said
“It’s snowball war”
Then he chased me
‘cross the grass
Slipped on ice
fell on his... bottom
I laughed my socks off!
21.11.08
I was very grateful
I’m doing Sunday Scribblings again this week I’ve got to write about the word Grateful.
I won an award once. I did – really! And I was soooooo grateful because I didn’t really deserve it. It was a runner up award. Not even that really, because I came last! I always call it my constipation award because it makes people laugh! It was actually a consolation award.
I was so grateful that when I went to bed that night I had a dream about it. I dreamt I was in a big restaurant. I was wearing a tight sexy red dress and a pair of sparkly sneakers with high heels! There were lots of people there going jaw-jaw-jaw about things I didn’t understand, but as there was lots of chardonnay I was very happy.
Then suddenly some bright lights shone on me. Everyone was staring and although I could see them clapping I couldn’t hear them. I realised I was listening to my iPod, so I took the ear things out and suddenly I could hear cheering. (Just a reminder, in case you’ve forgotten it was a dream) And then a voice called out ‘and the award goes to Rosemary Pinkerton’. It was great! I looked around and there was a lady beckoning me to go up onto a stage. I went up, and she presented me with a teapot made of chocolate. She said I had to make a speech.
Well, I seem to remember thanking my mum and dad for having me, my friends for being friends with me and all sorts of things like that. Then suddenly lots of tiny fairies appeared above everyone and scattered glitter everywhere. Everyone started hugging each other. It was lovely.
And then we all walked outside. The moon was smiling, and in the morning the sun was beaming.That’s when I woke up.
So that is my story about being grateful. Was it all right?
I won an award once. I did – really! And I was soooooo grateful because I didn’t really deserve it. It was a runner up award. Not even that really, because I came last! I always call it my constipation award because it makes people laugh! It was actually a consolation award.
I was so grateful that when I went to bed that night I had a dream about it. I dreamt I was in a big restaurant. I was wearing a tight sexy red dress and a pair of sparkly sneakers with high heels! There were lots of people there going jaw-jaw-jaw about things I didn’t understand, but as there was lots of chardonnay I was very happy.
Then suddenly some bright lights shone on me. Everyone was staring and although I could see them clapping I couldn’t hear them. I realised I was listening to my iPod, so I took the ear things out and suddenly I could hear cheering. (Just a reminder, in case you’ve forgotten it was a dream) And then a voice called out ‘and the award goes to Rosemary Pinkerton’. It was great! I looked around and there was a lady beckoning me to go up onto a stage. I went up, and she presented me with a teapot made of chocolate. She said I had to make a speech.
Well, I seem to remember thanking my mum and dad for having me, my friends for being friends with me and all sorts of things like that. Then suddenly lots of tiny fairies appeared above everyone and scattered glitter everywhere. Everyone started hugging each other. It was lovely.
And then we all walked outside. The moon was smiling, and in the morning the sun was beaming.That’s when I woke up.
So that is my story about being grateful. Was it all right?
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