The difficult second post

And so another week has drifted by in a fairly unremarkable fashion.

Blogging conundrum #2: How does one make this sound interesting?

A number of options are available. The first is known as the Willard Foxton Manoeuvre, and involves garnishing the truth (or more commonly, disregarding it entirely) to create an elaborate and captivating tale of pirates, hula dancers, snappy one-liners and scrapes with death.

The second option is to not bother trying, since if something is hard to do then it is clearly not worth doing. This will become one of those many, many blogs which was started with good intentions, but only got as far as a profile and a single post before the writer decided it was all far too much effort; and that time in front of the computer could be far better spent looking at pornography. This is known as The Other Willard Foxton Manoeuvre (although I can’t be certain about the pirate hula dancer porn).

The third option is to acknowledge the fact that this blog presently has a readership of one, and that this is only likely to increase if I decide to make a habit of reading my own posts after I publish them. And so it really doesn’t matter how interesting my week was to the casual observer, since nobody is observing; casually or otherwise.

Last weekend I found myself at Mendips Raceway with Sam, Dozer and temporary-pseudo-housemate Joss, watching brightly coloured motor cars get smashed to bits. I got a little bit sunburnt, and more than a little bit drunk on the local cider, which was decanted from a large, unlabelled barrel, and may or may not have been used to power some of the bangers out on the track. The important thing is that it was cheap and potent, and ensured that I fell asleep in the car on the way home – a mixed blessing given that Sam was driving, as whilst it meant that I couldn’t be scared out of my wits by his lethargic driving style, it also meant that it was down to Dozer and Joss in the back to pay attention to the road and helpfully point things out to Sam, like turnings, red lights, and stationary cars that lay directly in our path of travel.

Sam is utterly harmless and entirely gormless. One of the loveliest chaps a girl could ever hope to be just good friends with, he has recently taken up pipe smoking, and once ambiguously described a woman in his office as being “a bit like Anne of Cleves”. He’s a little bit like the stereotypical 40 year old virgin that still lives with his mother; except that he’s 24 years old, and he lives with us.

The next day bore witness to culinary adventures, as Dozer had a crack at making some special “herbal” confectionary. Using just three large bars of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk and an eighth of weed, he succeeded in creating chocolate that didn’t taste very good, and that wouldn’t get you high.

And that’s pretty much it. The rest of my time this week has been spent tinkering about with toy soldiers, and trying to weigh up the various pros and cons of traditional mouse cages compared to the new-fangled Rotastak tube-and-pod arrangements.

I am thinking of getting myself a pet…