Mandi
had to work today, which left me at a bit of a loose end. After walking Jack
around the park for an hour I had my breakfast and brought my laptop downstairs
and multi-tasked catching up with my blog, doing some work on my Bowie themed
short story, and watching some catch up TV that I’d recorded over Christmas. I
still haven’t fully got my head around the fact that Sky allows you to record
things on a hard drive, when I think about Christmas holidays of the past when
I would buy a supply of blank videos when the bumper Radio Times
and TV Times came into the house. For the
first time in my life I have had a Christmas holiday that hasn’t started with a
highlighter pen and the TV Times,
(NEVER deface the Radio Times as that is the one I
keep archived), such is the ease that I can just set up the recording for the
entire holiday period. However, I have yet to learn how much space I have; I
kept all the videos carefully numbered with notebooks full of content lists. Do
I just ask Sky for a new box to keep films, documentaries, and episodes of The Simpsons in?
I’m
never going to get the Bowie story finished by January 8th, in which
case I will take my time over it and hopefully have it ready for 2015. If the 8th
of January this year taught me anything, it is never to release new product on
David Bowie’s birthday. Is anyone else anticipating the day this year to see
what he pulls out of his (bippety-boppety) hat next?
We’re
going to a family party tonight at my cousin’s house, so with Mandi out of the
way I was able to sort out what I was wearing and get showered and ready before
she came home and needed to use the bathroom, (she’s bath, I’m shower). To make
myself a bit useful around the house, I powered through the laundry and did
several wash loads. For reasons nobody has ever told me about, you can’t do
laundry on New Year’s Day so I thought it made sense to get it out of the way
today. Not that superstition carries a great deal of weight of course, but I
can’t help but live my life by it, just in case. No ladder gets walked under on
my watch, no magpie goes un-saluted and no penny is left to languish on the
pavement (I collect pavement coins in a tin money box that needs a tin opener
to get into it, and we open it and empty the contents into the change machine
at Asda every Christmas Eve to finance our visit to the pub). Although deep
down I know it to be bollocks, the OCD part of my brain won’t allow me to ignore
superstition. One day I would like to spend an allocated amount of time going
against all these rules; walking under ladders while smashing a mirror and
telling magpies to go and fuck themselves. But I’d be too scared.
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