I have not forgotten you; in fact I often think of you, as I crawl into bed at an early but necessary hour each evening, and feel guilty that I am neglecting you. The problem is, I don’t seem to have much to feed you with at present. I suppose I could shove you full of the blogging equivalent of pasta (blow-by-blow accounts of the minor deeds of my children). After all, many people enjoy pasta greatly. But other people find it palls after a while. I do have a couple of interesting pasta dishes on offer, comparatively speaking:
Penne regurgitati – a pungent dish, produced at about 2am most nights this week, followed by an unpleasant cleaning up and re-settling operation
Tortured tortellini – extended moaning by me about how little sleep we’ve had as a result of the regurgitating
Farfalle fluffi – fond, somewhat cloying musings on how gorgeous and delightful my boys are despite their ill-time digestive upsets, transcribing several amusing grammatical mistakes by Hugh plus Frank’s entire vocabulary (duck! doggie! milk! beer! tea! cook! pan! out! etc etc)
You don’t want any of those, though, do you?
I ought, if I could just find the energy, to be able to put together a quite spicy and, for this blog, unusual concoction of election commentary: not only is there shortly to be a general election (I have useful thoughts to share on why Eamon Gilmore really should get a new photo for his campaign posters) but at work we are to elect a new provost. Of the two elections I feel much more hopeful and engaged with respect to the second one. Our house-buying project also might become a source of sustenance; but, alas, our offer is still refused, and the agent hasn’t replied to my email asking if there have been any other developments. I hope this means there is no other offer, but I just don’t know.
So, dear blog, you’re on a bit of slimming diet. And, sadly, people like plump blogs – plump, funny blogs for preference. I shall just have to go on a gathering mission to find you something interesting to chew. Manufacture incidents on buses, that sort of thing. Apropos of which, one of my facebook friends has been in Tirana and has posted, in addition to lots of moody studies of graffiti and people in leather jackets, photos of each of his hands, covered in scratches and captioned “My hands after the Incident.” He won’t explain what the Incident was and I have no contact with him apart from facebook these days (we were graduate students together) so I imagine I’m not going to find out. I find this frustrating. I’d like to say it’s because I’m worried for him, but I’m afraid it’s mostly curiosity, and irritation that he should so deliberately arouse that curiosity and then refuse to satisfy it. I could take enigmatic photos and put them on the blog with mocking, confusing captions. Or I could mention the very scandalous expenses claim that was recently submitted to my School but that I’m not allowed to talk about. But I won’t do that. It would be annoying.