The present life of man, O king, seems to me, in comparison of that time which is unknown to us, like to the swift flight of a sparrow through the room wherein you sit at supper in winter, with your commanders and ministers, and a good fire in the midst, whilst the storms of rain and snow prevail abroad; the sparrow, I say, flying in at one door, and immediately out at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry storm; but after a short space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, into the dark winter from which he had emerged. So this life of man appears for a short space, but of what went before, or what is to follow, we are utterly ignorant.
– the Venerable Bede
Bede’s are the days of our lives …
(That is quite possibly the worst pun I have ever made – and certainly the hardest working one.)
Almost dark (deep blue) and guinea fowl make their rusty complaints and look for somewhere to roost. Soft, soft rain. A dog barks somewhere and mine snores softly beside me. The fridge is bitching too, I have no idea why.
Good evening and here is the blues …
I’m haunting my own house again; padding around barefoot with the lights off. Natural light is supposed to balance circadian rhythms, it’s not dark enough here though – that bloody street light.
Time is such a precious thing and I’m just wasting mine. Criminal really … I wish I could donate it to someone who’d make better use of it, frankly.
Cloudy dark now – no moon, no stars. Sporadic thump of bass from decidedly horrible music. There’s a potjiekos competition tonight. A potjie is a three legged cast iron pot (think cauldron and you’ll get the idea), in any size from mouse to cannibal; it gets your great great well she was ok I guess great grandma’s secret combo of stew ingredients chucked in and then cooked over or on a fire. Then you split into binary gender based groups to drink and chat for many hours. For authenticity, potjiekos should be served with pap, which is basically a local maize polenta. It can be delicious, it can be vile; it all depends on the cook. Bonus points for serving with a live, big screen rugby game too. Nextofkin made a korma in a big one here almost a year ago. Hmm hmm pronunciation. Potjiekos: poy-key-kos (short o on last thingummy). Pap: pup.
(No idea wtf that is – potjie planking? Bizarre. Usually we just throw babies in.)
Blogging is good for me. I start off all emo and mopey and type away and then distract myself. And then I’m quite cheerful till I stop typing again.
That reminds me, how’s this for one of those faaabulous ideas that never happen. In 2003 I wanted to find software/a way to measure the length of all the lines that make text and then write the distance from earth to the moon. It’s about 384,400 km.
I know, I know.
Which flavours/centres of chocolate do you leave till last?