Hot, Sweet Tea

Because I could not quite reach death,
He reached across for me
And in his rundown cottage
We shared a pot of tea.
He told me all his troubles,
And I told him most of mine
He stood to brew another pot,
I welcomed lonely Time
Who had come knocking,
On the off chance that
The two of us were in
And although we'd finished all the tea,
We started on the gin.

Where's Willy?

This is an actual add from e-bay

Can you spot the seller who took the photo?

Can you tell me why he's naked?

End of an Era

The day of judgement has finally arrived. I have cancelled my subscription to World of Warcraft and for the next few weeks will have to find some other diversion to fill my time before something else comes along.

Maybe I'll get around to updating my blog, stranger things have happened . . .

Although I have enjoyed playing WoW for eighteen months or so it finally got too much. The grinding levels, the grinding gold, the grinding motes, the grinding resources, the . . . grinding. There was only so many level five warriors whispering me for help/gold/boost, tuxedoed gnomes dancing on the mailbox (often mercifully obscured by the draenai shaman parking his elephant) and endless platoons of gold sellers camped outside the auction house that I could stomach before I snapped.

I have been playing off and on for the last few weeks pretty much alone, begging the question why play a Massive Multiplayer game if all I do is quest by myself? Truth be told, I can happily play alone, questing and exploring and crafting to my hearts content, but this was different. I didn't really have a choice in the matter.

My hubby (instigator of my habit, and grinding/questing buddy) had given up the WoW ghost long before I got sick. Our guild of fairly jovial, helpful and chatty folk had uprooted themselves and made a new home on another server (namely Horde but I won't start dark side bashing) and out of the few of us left those with any sense left for raid guilds and never looked back. I however remained.

It is a sad thing, to watch something you saw grow and flourish, something you spend time nurturing and watering, crumble into slow death and disrepair. It is sadder however to watch to the bitter end and do nothing. Like any survivor must, I turned my back on the smoking husk and walked away . . .

. . . and I feel better for it.

And what of the future? Am I now to join the ranks of facile gossip hungry minions who crowd before the TV every night to absorb the mind numbing trash that passes for entertainment? Will I be made to care who won Big Brother, which celebrities are going to the jungle or who won this years' pointless media circus that dares to call itself a talent show?

Will I shite!

If you're looking for me this summer, try searching the vales of Hyboria where it is rumoured a band of warrior nomads are swathing a path of destruction under the watchful eye of King Conan.

The buxom mercenary with the bow in her hand might just look familiar . . .

Child's Play

Just what you always wanted,

a plush Ted Glen.






I'm both intrigued and terrified by what classes as good entertainment for kids these days. My own childhood was spent roaming Greendale with Pat and Jess, mending lost toys with the mice from the Mouse organ or travelling to the moon in a spaceship made of an old baked bean tin and a funnel.

I turned out ok, didn't I?

The minefield that is children's TV today, however, is another thing altogether. There are shows that I will allow my daughter to watch like Peppa Pig and Lazy Town (or maybe its me watching Lazy Town while she pretends to play with her toys) but there are many shows where I find myself scrabbling for the remote in horror.

While I am still queen of the remote control of power I will strive to shelter my two year old from the likes of Barney, whose wholesome american bullshit I find disturbing, and anything that involves a Disney Princess. Yo Gabba Gabba has won the award for strangest show in that it is incomprehensibly shallow and presented by Shaft's little brother in an orange jumpsuit, and the
soulless parody of the Magic Roundabout (that they only get away with because the parents of the generation watching it aren't quite old enough themselves to remember it) is only worth mentioning because they must have spent mega bucks making something that frankly seems quite cheap.

It seems to me that our children are currently being borbarded with complete and utter trash designed to sell merchandise and make a quick buck. This shouldn't surprise me as this seems to be the way of the world and children are merely the softest target. My resolution? I've just bought the DVD compilations for Bagpuss and Button Moon, for my daughter, of course :)