blank'/> 66 Square Feet (Plus): Sunday bloody Sunday

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Sunday bloody Sunday

Yup. Reaping what I sowed. You may remember a weekend some time ago when I cleverly took my dishwasher apart to find a recalcitrant cherry pit jamming the works. And then I put everything together again and found this, up there. My screw has come back to bite me in the rear, since the poor dishwasher sounds as though it is possessed when it reaches the Rinse/Hold cycle. Back into its bowels I go. Maybe I'll buy a smaller wrench first. Grrr.

I'm tired of the Rinse/Hold cycle. I'd rather to go back to Light Wash.



The weekend's Holy Trinity: espresso, hot milk, hot flapjack. To be taken back to bed and eaten with the cat looking at me accusingly.

Johnny Cash singing: On a Sunday morning sidewalk, Lord I wish that I were stoned, 'cos there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone. And there's nothing short of dying that's half as lonesome as the sound of the sleeping city sidewalk, and a Sunday morning coming down.

It's the day for what ifs to sneak under the door and sniff around corners of the room.

And Monday means work, which is good, and a return to my seat in front of screen and postboard where Important Things are put, and a hopeful death to the what ifs.

4 comments:

  1. I'm word perfect on that particular Johnny Cash; Kirsty and I used to do a duet. And most of the rest of JC...

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  2. Really?? I had no idea. I've been listening to him obsessively for the last month or so. I wish I could have heard the duet. Those Louws...

    Chris and I sing the refrain from the, It ain't you, babe! No, no, no, it ain't you: Babe! cracks us up.

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  3. Dylan's good too. And Baez. And old English, Scots, Irish and Welsh folk songs, a lot of which ended up in the American mountains. Slightly changed, but recognisable. Nothing like good country songs to squeeze the tear ducts...

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  4. Ooooh, nay, Dzay? ma' dzy luista na Dylan, nuh?? Dzy's a intellectual!

    That's an accent I miss. Reminds me of Frederic, and working at Anatoli with Margie who was the head of the scullery, and had a tongue that could trip the carbon off pots. I was aloof behind the bar and helped Bevan in the kitchen.

    I cannot listen to Dylan. He hurts my ears!

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