NS March 2nd, 2010
The first rule of writer’s block is — don’t talk about writer’s block. The second rule of writer’s block is don’t talk about writer’s block on your blog and then plead with your readers to hang tight while you scavenge your brain for nuggets of wisdom and entertaining anecdotes. The third rule of writer’s block is…well, you know the rest.
NS February 26th, 2010
Just a quickie (no, not that kind — get your minds out of the gutter!) to say that from now on, the entity formerly known as TNC (The Noble Child) will henceforth be referred to as NG (Noble Girl) and the child formerly known as TNB (The Noble Baby) will be NB (Noble Boy). TNH (The Noble Husband) will just be NH. The reasons for this are a) TNB is not a baby anymore *sniff*, b) I’ve always been just Noble Savage, not THE Noble Savage (except for on Twitter because, annoyingly, the name was already taken) so I reckon we should all be the same and c) it’s my blog and I can bloody well do what I want to (she says while stamping her foot in a rebellious manner).
So yeah, that was all I wanted to say. Do you think this is possibly my worst blog post ever? I’d say it’s a contender, along with this pathetic, two-word post during NaBloPoMo ‘07.
NS February 15th, 2010
I realised today, as I was driving along singing my heart out to a series of songs on Magic radio, all from 1973, that (musically at least) I was born in the wrong decade. I mean, how can you beat this playlist?
When ‘Superstition’ came on, I actually yelped with excitement and turned the radio up really loudly (no kids in the car — hurrah!). I could barely contain myself. That, my friends, is MUSIC. I’m telling you, I was meant to be alive and in my youth during the 60s and 70s. I would’ve been in bell-bottomed, peace-signed, guitar-strumming, funk-loving heaven.
That said, I think I would’ve also been quite happy in the Roaring Twenties as well. After going to see The Princess and the Frog yesterday with The Noble Child and hearing all of that lovely New Orleans-style jazz music, I could totally picture myself as a gin-swilling, fun-loving, Charleston-dancing, boa-wearing flapper.
If you could’ve been a young adult in any decade in the 20th century, which would it have been?
NS November 6th, 2009
Apologies in advance to all of you who are on Blogger and/or who use word verification, but I’m not a big fan of having to squint at the little box that pops up after I type out a comment on your site and then try to decipher a bunch of meaningless numbers and letters that are upside down, smashed together or embedded within a busy design that gives me a headache just looking at it. In fact, if I had my way I’d rid the blogosphere of word verification entirely. Fortunately for me, others agree and this blogger even made a nifty button to express my feelings on the matter:
However, word verification does serve one purpose: it sometimes entertains me with its random selection of letters that, together, almost sound like words but aren’t. I’ve taken to noting down ones of late that sound like they could really be found in the dictionary (though perhaps only on Mars or Tolkien’s Middle Earth) and given them definitions. Behold:
Gammi – I imagine this to be an Italian dessert of gelato and jam on an alcohol-soaked biscuit base. That, or a horrendously smelly running shoe. I can’t decide which
Ungive – Well, duh. It’s the opposite of give
Roviati – A group of paparazzi who have been hounded out of their homes by anti-celeb-chasers and are living in the woods down by the river, keeping their skills sharp by taking photos of squirrels and birds as they dart amongst the undergrowth
Outti – The official word for that nub of flesh that sticks out of a pregnant woman’s belly where her navel used to be. Traditionally called an ‘outie’ but with the spelling altered here to make it feel more special and unique, much like parents-to-be do with baby names
Prounch – A pocket (literally) of skin on the abdomen, grown from harvested stem cells which provides a place to keep your valuables when out on the pull without the need to carry a pesky handbag
Butchopa – A mythical place where women are not sexualised for others’ pleasure or profit and aren’t required to be Beauty 2k Compliant to feel good about themselves
Oxisorr – A skin disorder that results from compulsive cleansing and continual application of harsh acne medication
How about you, seen any good ‘words’ lately?
NS October 21st, 2009
Things are a little quiet here. I’m feeling a little quiet. Introspective, even. It’s no big surprise, really. I think most bloggers go through short periods of time every so often in which it seems better to be taking things in that churning them out. I’ve taken breaks before and I’ve always come back. I ain’t quittin’ you, Internet, and this isn’t an official ‘break’, but I’m just not going to force myself to blog about nothing if that’s all I’ve got to say. Though…isn’t that what I’m doing right now?
Maybe it’s the change in season or my decision to start looking at going back to work and all the planning that is going into that, but I’ve been finding myself crunching numbers for our childcare budget and reading in bed with cups of tea more appealing than sitting in front of the computer getting angry at all the douchebags, numbskulls and ignoramuses out there.
Like the guy who wrote the book pictured above. I picked this book up at a secondhand shop on Sunday whilst out for a boozy lunch with my good friend, H. We’d had two bottles of wine over a gorgeous Turkish meal and had left more than a little tipsy. Seeing as I’d been for my bibliotherapy session earlier that morning, we’d stumbled over to the bookshop on the premise of finding the book I’d been ‘prescribed.’ Lo, we could not find The Last Samurai and had to settle for the ridiculously titled Sperm Are From Men, Eggs Are From Women: The *real* reason men and women are diferent to amuse ourselves with as we went off in search of another pub. At least twice per drink, H would shout out a page and paragraph number and I would do a short dramatic reading of that passage while sloshing my drink around as I gesticulated wildly. Another bottle of wine and a couple of gin and tonics later, I was reading passages out loud to people on the train on the way home.
What can I say, I’m a literate drunk. I’m sure the other passengers were thrilled.
At one point, while gesturing with the hand holding a lollipop I’d found in the bottom of my handbag and which I was happily licking between bouts of indignant gesturing, I dropped it on the floor near my seatmate’s shoe. Charming.
At least I wasn’t dropping atomic bombs on anybody because, apparently, I am responsible for that as well, as one of those evil American types. Or at least, so sayeth a man in the park earlier that day who, upon hearing my accent, launched into a diatribe about it and demanded I give him some answers. Seeing as it all happened 34 years before I was even born, I had none, sadly.
Ever since Obama came into office I’ve seen a sharp decline in the amount of anti-American encounters I have, which were at their height during the Bush years, so I was taken a little more off guard than I normally am. From 2002 through most of 2008 I wouldn’t have blinked an eye if someone wanted to shout at me about bombs, though usually the diatribe was aimed at the variety being rained down upon Iraq and Afghanistan, not The Big One during World War II.
Still, this is something I’ve just gotten used to the longer I’ve lived here. Having an American accent will, for the moment, always mark me out as different, as privileged and (usually) as either a bit off my rocker, slightly stupid or ragingly arrogant. Such appealing stereotypes to face on a daily basis, no?
Conversely, having a British accent in America marks one out as exceedingly intelligent, humorous and polite, if a little stuffy and prudish. It’s not surprising that I had little sympathy for The Noble Husband when we were living in the States and he would complain of being teased for the way he said ‘water’ or ‘pawn’ or ‘tuna’. Most of the time people were falling all over themselves to hear him speak and thought he was the epitome of class and charm. Repeat after me: poooooor widdle thing!
Anyway, that concludes my inane babbling about breaks, budgets, books, booze and bombs. Hopefully, I’ll get my blogging mojo back soon. Until then, I’ll be curled up in my duvet thinking about one of the aforementioned Bs.
