It struck me that the ever popular metablog strand has not seen any content for a while: two-and-a-half years according to WordPress. As I’m sure the worldwide howls of protest about this omission will be reaching me momentarily, I decided to act now and throw this hastily prepared and ill thought-out example into the breach.
As I believe was traditional, I will start with the unexpected geographical popularity of a post. Our ex-colonies over the Atlantic seem to be drawn to Crossrail (a rant where I get cross about the railways in these isles) like cats to the eponymous nip – but for the life of me I cannot see the attraction to those from the US of A. Maybe it is the novelty value of railways of any form that draws them in?
Whilst on the topic of transport, I can report that my plan to retain a cleaner, redder car has been a success. Eight weeks in and the car remains almost pristine (the strawberry car) in its new resting place – sadly, it hasn’t moved in that period but another trip to the tip is in the offing and the annual Christmas excursion to see the family (mine, rather than its).
Since eating the flesh of the wascally wabbit last weekend, I fear I may have been possessed by the ghost of Elmer Fudd. Earlier in the week I found myself reading the label on a bottle of apple juice as wusset (though did avoid saying egwemont wusset). This infection is spreading, earlier today I found myself saying bwamwey.
I am relieved to report that my lottery prediction was almost entirely inaccurate, though I did get the Bonus Ball spot on! (If anyone fancies a punt on number 27 tonight, then be my guest). I can return to my pre-existing beliefs in probability, coincidence and the rather duff nature of the Met Office’s take on the likelihood of precipitation.
I have been forced to further embrace the spirit of Christmas, despite the very real urge to resist the peer pressure. I have had my first (and second) mince pie of 2014 and more-or-less finished my Christmas shopping without too much pain (and no need to resort to physical violence – still, you can’t have everything!). Last night, I even went to the Brightside PT Christmas bash – which was fun, though people didn’t engage with the games as much as they might. I have re-watched Arthur Christmas and I rather think tonight it will be turn of the Muppet Christmas Carol as I attempt to stoke the embers of Christmas spirit within. I think my inner Scrooge is on the wane.
Spurred on by the success of the Snow Queen, I have even been to another family-friendly play. As work took me to London on Thursday, I decided to use the opportunity (and funded rail ticket) to enjoy some evening fun and plumped for Treasure Island at the National Theatre. This choice was driven by its handy location next Waterloo station (good for a relatively early night) but also the somewhat inexplicable availability of a single seat in the centre of the 3rd row for a mere £15 (when all around it seats were £50). The seat was as close to perfect as one can find at the Olivier, and also allowed a very fast exit in the interval allowing me to nab an ice-cream, despite the substantial numbers of (slower moving) children (and their paying parents). The production was wonderful and loads of fun – better even than the Muppet version of the tale. The set (or sets, to be honest) were amazing – there must be vast caverns under the Olivier to store and manoeuvre it all – and there were sword-fights, blood and gore (for the kiddies), laughs galore, an animatronic parrot, far more female characters than Robert Louis Stephenson wrote and a cheese-obsessed Tom Gunn. What more could anyone seek from a night out? I think there is a lot more theatrical potential in cheese than is widely realised, should any playwrights happen to be reading..
So, readers can now imagine me as a tinsel be-decked Elmer Fudd with a shiny red car (albeit one without unearned – or wanted – millions of pounds). It won’t be entirely accurate, but is certainly more festive than the last inaccurate image I offered.