Everyone gets songs stuck in their head.
I tend towards theme tunes. Specifically 80's theme tunes.
Dallas. The A-Team. MASH. GI Joe. Jem. Rainbow Brite.
Doesn't have to be something I've heard in the last twenty years, doesn't even have to be something I know all the words to. Currently I have the first 40 seconds or so of Dallas on a loop and I can't seem to get rid of it. Lady Felicity is going to kill me on Monday, but I don't think I've seen an episode of Dallas since about 1990-something. Not a full one anyway. And that was only because I was putting off an essay on Chaucer and the Lollards and TNN was having a marathon.
The human brain is a hoarder of useless information. MY brain in particular. If this is my superpower, I feel slightly cheated.
This post has little point, other than to share my agony with you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pygwaX2VNzQ
Showing posts with label Lady Felicity Marchwell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lady Felicity Marchwell. Show all posts
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
Saturday, 19 May 2012
In Which I Become Afeared of Lady Felicity Marchwell's Wrath
Or perhaps, more accurately, her disappointment.
I'm supposed to be working on a new wedding dress. I have half a corset and bits and pieces of a tartan crinoline scattered over the desk. However, John-Lewis doesn't stock left-handed sewing scissors these days, so I'm typing with one hand while my other twitches on the desk trying to recover from the pain of using tools designed for the dexterous members of the human-race. My thumb is a lovely shade of violet in case you were wondering. (I'm fairly certain that you weren't, but I was taught to share).
I didn't mean to start a new blog post. I know one is long over due but when I started this break from sewing I intended to wrap a birthday present. I have, however, run into a bit of a snag: I can't find it. And writing this post may keep me from freaking out.
I bought the missing present months ago, having spotted the perfect gift at one of those rare times when I had both the means and the inclination to shop (a rare thing these days). Husbando agreed that it was an ideal gift for Lady Felicity Marchwell (names have been changed to protect the innocent) and we coasted through late Winter and early Spring, content in the knowledge that a good friend, in possession of a variety of hobbies, would not be in want of a gift.
Wherever her present is at the moment it is certainly very SAFE, but it's doing neither myself nor her Ladyship any good. Unless my brain decides to cooperate and I can dredge the location of the gift from my memory, I will need to find something else to give to Lady F. She may like the replacement, but I will know that it isn't right. Part of me will always wonder if she would have liked the original gift better. Anything I find will be tainted by the fact that it is not what I meant to give her. If I can even find a replacement.
'But it's just a present,' you say. 'Calm down dear. You'll find something else.'
Yes, I will. I will find something else and I will attend Lady Felicity's Festivities with a happy heart and I will have a good time. But that doesn't change the fact that somewhere in my house is a present which cannot be given.
There is almost nothing sadder than a present that cannot be given.
I'm supposed to be working on a new wedding dress. I have half a corset and bits and pieces of a tartan crinoline scattered over the desk. However, John-Lewis doesn't stock left-handed sewing scissors these days, so I'm typing with one hand while my other twitches on the desk trying to recover from the pain of using tools designed for the dexterous members of the human-race. My thumb is a lovely shade of violet in case you were wondering. (I'm fairly certain that you weren't, but I was taught to share).
I didn't mean to start a new blog post. I know one is long over due but when I started this break from sewing I intended to wrap a birthday present. I have, however, run into a bit of a snag: I can't find it. And writing this post may keep me from freaking out.
I bought the missing present months ago, having spotted the perfect gift at one of those rare times when I had both the means and the inclination to shop (a rare thing these days). Husbando agreed that it was an ideal gift for Lady Felicity Marchwell (names have been changed to protect the innocent) and we coasted through late Winter and early Spring, content in the knowledge that a good friend, in possession of a variety of hobbies, would not be in want of a gift.
Wherever her present is at the moment it is certainly very SAFE, but it's doing neither myself nor her Ladyship any good. Unless my brain decides to cooperate and I can dredge the location of the gift from my memory, I will need to find something else to give to Lady F. She may like the replacement, but I will know that it isn't right. Part of me will always wonder if she would have liked the original gift better. Anything I find will be tainted by the fact that it is not what I meant to give her. If I can even find a replacement.
'But it's just a present,' you say. 'Calm down dear. You'll find something else.'
Yes, I will. I will find something else and I will attend Lady Felicity's Festivities with a happy heart and I will have a good time. But that doesn't change the fact that somewhere in my house is a present which cannot be given.
There is almost nothing sadder than a present that cannot be given.
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