Ellaboheme's one pic a day

A thing of beauty is a joy forever. So is chocolate.

8 notes

Monday 3rd December 2012 

It really is all about me 

Today I am writing. No shit Sherlock. I haven’t posted on this blog for ages: many reasons, some too dull to list. (Most, probably: health, boy & school crises, gloom, house disasters etc) 

Anyway. Today my photo is simply of me, because I realise that one of the reasons I stopped writing was the wrong one. I forgot who and what I was writing for.

In a purely selfish way, I just write for me. I write because it teases out strands of my thoughts and gives a little patch of order in the chaos of my brain. I write because I love the rhythm of words and sounds in my head. I love to tell very small stories. I love to find connections between unrelated happenings and things and thoughts. Writing gives me great pleasure & quiet satisfaction. 

But one of the reasons I stopped writing here was because of the original reasons for starting this blog. It was on the recommendation of a friend who is no longer a friend: suddenly everything here seemed a bit pointless. It was a project we embarked on together. My friend has continued, being a very disciplined kind of person. My motivation is always closely bound to my emotional state however, and I have had no desire to write for weeks. 

Sometimes I have a lapse and it’s because there are such mixed events happening I don’t know where to start. Or one thing is filling up my head so much that there’s no room for anything else. 

The trouble with that is that when I stop writing, the clutter of my brain is inclined to spread into the tidy corners. My motivation gets diluted with doubt and I start to think that I’m probably the most useless writer that exists. When I’m writing every day, I still doubt my ability but it becomes less paralysing. I just think, “yeah I’m producing a massive pile of shit, but at least it’s my shit and nobody else’s.”.  When I’m not writing, I just think, “who needs more shit written?” And my brain shuts down. 

So today I think I’ve come to a decision. It is perhaps, not a decision, but an understanding I’ve reached with myself. I need to write because it’s good for me. I’m not writing this because I think I am benefitting anyone else. I’m not sending messages to anyone or communicating in abstract. I  am writing purely for me. 

I appreciate that if I publish a blog post then it’s with the intention that it’s a piece of the public domain. It’s written to be read. And that is true. But not because I think you should, or it’s going to improve your day or inspire or instruct, but just because it’s there. Why not? I’ve written and you can read it. Or not. I don’t mind. 

Don’t get me wrong, of course, I love it when my writing occasionally hits the spot and someone likes it. I also like it when someone argues with me over it. It’s a kind of discussion. Just a little bit of me that’s put out there. It’s a small piece of risk taking that I like. 

This post has been a little bit meta today. Tomorrow I shall choose a more interesting topic. Oranges or asperger meltdowns or how much I hate phoning boiler companies and complaining or suchlike. All topical.

But today, it has been about me and my head. Which, every now and then ks fine. Seeing as that’s where all this baloney comes from and after all, I’m writing it for ME.

Monday 3rd December 2012 

It really is all about me

Today I am writing. No shit Sherlock. I haven’t posted on this blog for ages: many reasons, some too dull to list. (Most, probably: health, boy & school crises, gloom, house disasters etc)

Anyway. Today my photo is simply of me, because I realise that one of the reasons I stopped writing was the wrong one. I forgot who and what I was writing for.

In a purely selfish way, I just write for me. I write because it teases out strands of my thoughts and gives a little patch of order in the chaos of my brain. I write because I love the rhythm of words and sounds in my head. I love to tell very small stories. I love to find connections between unrelated happenings and things and thoughts. Writing gives me great pleasure & quiet satisfaction.

But one of the reasons I stopped writing here was because of the original reasons for starting this blog. It was on the recommendation of a friend who is no longer a friend: suddenly everything here seemed a bit pointless. It was a project we embarked on together. My friend has continued, being a very disciplined kind of person. My motivation is always closely bound to my emotional state however, and I have had no desire to write for weeks.

Sometimes I have a lapse and it’s because there are such mixed events happening I don’t know where to start. Or one thing is filling up my head so much that there’s no room for anything else.

The trouble with that is that when I stop writing, the clutter of my brain is inclined to spread into the tidy corners. My motivation gets diluted with doubt and I start to think that I’m probably the most useless writer that exists. When I’m writing every day, I still doubt my ability but it becomes less paralysing. I just think, “yeah I’m producing a massive pile of shit, but at least it’s my shit and nobody else’s.”. When I’m not writing, I just think, “who needs more shit written?” And my brain shuts down.

So today I think I’ve come to a decision. It is perhaps, not a decision, but an understanding I’ve reached with myself. I need to write because it’s good for me. I’m not writing this because I think I am benefitting anyone else. I’m not sending messages to anyone or communicating in abstract. I am writing purely for me.

I appreciate that if I publish a blog post then it’s with the intention that it’s a piece of the public domain. It’s written to be read. And that is true. But not because I think you should, or it’s going to improve your day or inspire or instruct, but just because it’s there. Why not? I’ve written and you can read it. Or not. I don’t mind.

Don’t get me wrong, of course, I love it when my writing occasionally hits the spot and someone likes it. I also like it when someone argues with me over it. It’s a kind of discussion. Just a little bit of me that’s put out there. It’s a small piece of risk taking that I like.

This post has been a little bit meta today. Tomorrow I shall choose a more interesting topic. Oranges or asperger meltdowns or how much I hate phoning boiler companies and complaining or suchlike. All topical.

But today, it has been about me and my head. Which, every now and then ks fine. Seeing as that’s where all this baloney comes from and after all, I’m writing it for ME.

12 notes

Monday 3rd December 2012 

It really is all about me 

Today I am writing. No shit Sherlock. I haven’t posted on this blog for ages: many reasons, some too dull to list. (Most, probably: health, boy & school crises, gloom, house disasters etc) 

Anyway. Today my photo is simply of me, because I realise that one of the reasons I stopped writing was the wrong one. I forgot who and what I was writing for.

In a purely selfish way, I just write for me. I write because it teases out strands of my thoughts and gives a little patch of order in the chaos of my brain. I write because I love the rhythm of words and sounds in my head. I love to tell very small stories. I love to find connections between unrelated happenings and things and thoughts. Writing gives me great pleasure & quiet satisfaction. 

But one of the reasons I stopped writing here was because of the original reasons for starting this blog. It was on the recommendation of a friend who is no longer a friend: suddenly everything here seemed a bit pointless. It was a project we embarked on together. My friend has continued, being a very disciplined kind of person. My motivation is always closely bound to my emotional state however, and I have had no desire to write for weeks. 

Sometimes I have a lapse and it’s because there are such mixed events happening I don’t know where to start. Or one thing is filling up my head so much that there’s no room for anything else. 

The trouble with that is that when I stop writing, the clutter of my brain is inclined to spread into the tidy corners. My motivation gets diluted with doubt and I start to think that I’m probably the most useless writer that exists. When I’m writing every day, I still doubt my ability but it becomes less paralysing. I just think, “yeah I’m producing a massive pile of shit, but at least it’s my shit and nobody else’s.”.  When I’m not writing, I just think, “who needs more shit written?” And my brain shuts down. 

So today I think I’ve come to a decision. It is perhaps, not a decision, but an understanding I’ve reached with myself. I need to write because it’s good for me. I’m not writing this because I think I am benefitting anyone else. I’m not sending messages to anyone or communicating in abstract. I  am writing purely for me. 

I appreciate that if I publish a blog post then it’s with the intention that it’s a piece of the public domain. It’s written to be read. And that is true. But not because I think you should, or it’s going to improve your day or inspire or instruct, but just because it’s there. Why not? I’ve written and you can read it. Or not. I don’t mind. 

Don’t get me wrong, of course, I love it when my writing occasionally hits the spot and someone likes it. I also like it when someone argues with me over it. It’s a kind of discussion. Just a little bit of me that’s put out there. It’s a small piece of risk taking that I like. 

This post has been a little bit meta today. Tomorrow I shall choose a more interesting topic. Oranges or asperger meltdowns or how much I hate phoning boiler companies and complaining or suchlike. All topical.

But today, it has been about me and my head. Which, every now and then ks fine. Seeing as that’s where all this baloney comes from and after all, I’m writing it for ME.

Monday 3rd December 2012 

It really is all about me

Today I am writing. No shit Sherlock. I haven’t posted on this blog for ages: many reasons, some too dull to list. (Most, probably: health, boy & school crises, gloom, house disasters etc)

Anyway. Today my photo is simply of me, because I realise that one of the reasons I stopped writing was the wrong one. I forgot who and what I was writing for.

In a purely selfish way, I just write for me. I write because it teases out strands of my thoughts and gives a little patch of order in the chaos of my brain. I write because I love the rhythm of words and sounds in my head. I love to tell very small stories. I love to find connections between unrelated happenings and things and thoughts. Writing gives me great pleasure & quiet satisfaction.

But one of the reasons I stopped writing here was because of the original reasons for starting this blog. It was on the recommendation of a friend who is no longer a friend: suddenly everything here seemed a bit pointless. It was a project we embarked on together. My friend has continued, being a very disciplined kind of person. My motivation is always closely bound to my emotional state however, and I have had no desire to write for weeks.

Sometimes I have a lapse and it’s because there are such mixed events happening I don’t know where to start. Or one thing is filling up my head so much that there’s no room for anything else.

The trouble with that is that when I stop writing, the clutter of my brain is inclined to spread into the tidy corners. My motivation gets diluted with doubt and I start to think that I’m probably the most useless writer that exists. When I’m writing every day, I still doubt my ability but it becomes less paralysing. I just think, “yeah I’m producing a massive pile of shit, but at least it’s my shit and nobody else’s.”. When I’m not writing, I just think, “who needs more shit written?” And my brain shuts down.

So today I think I’ve come to a decision. It is perhaps, not a decision, but an understanding I’ve reached with myself. I need to write because it’s good for me. I’m not writing this because I think I am benefitting anyone else. I’m not sending messages to anyone or communicating in abstract. I am writing purely for me.

I appreciate that if I publish a blog post then it’s with the intention that it’s a piece of the public domain. It’s written to be read. And that is true. But not because I think you should, or it’s going to improve your day or inspire or instruct, but just because it’s there. Why not? I’ve written and you can read it. Or not. I don’t mind.

Don’t get me wrong, of course, I love it when my writing occasionally hits the spot and someone likes it. I also like it when someone argues with me over it. It’s a kind of discussion. Just a little bit of me that’s put out there. It’s a small piece of risk taking that I like.

This post has been a little bit meta today. Tomorrow I shall choose a more interesting topic. Oranges or asperger meltdowns or how much I hate phoning boiler companies and complaining or suchlike. All topical.

But today, it has been about me and my head. Which, every now and then ks fine. Seeing as that’s where all this baloney comes from and after all, I’m writing it for ME.

10 notes

Monday 19th November 

Catnap 

This is Ernie. Chilling. Lolling. Sprawled on my legs, as you do when you’re 11 weeks and cute and everyone loves you. 

The great thing about being a kitten is that you can basically run about like a lunatic until you conk out asleep, anywhere. Really anywhere at all. Ernie doesn’t care if he’s awake at 3am, pottering at 5.30am and then fast asleep most of the daylight hours. Nor does his brother Bert. 

Unfortunately, my stupid brain and body seem to have taken to operating on kitten timings. I’m unable to keep my eyes open about 7pm, napping on the sofa with the little hooligans until woken by my children. Fall into bed about now, but then I’m awake again at 2am. 

I’ve tried staying awake later, going to bed at…wait for it, 11pm!!! But these days, post-sedative mood stabiliser periods, I’m just no good at night. Except when I wake up. At 2am. 

I don’t fret too much about it, I often just have a little chat to myself, read or faff quietly on twitter. I’m usually asleep again by 4 or so, so my usual night’s sleep is about six hours… Could be worse. 

But if only I could curl up on some lovely person whenever I’m exhausted, just make myself comfortable and drop off. That’s my idea of heaven actually. 

Sigh. 

I’d like to be a kitten. Not a sex-kitten, a real live kitten with a lap to flop in. Please Father Christmas.  Thanks.

Monday 19th November

Catnap

This is Ernie. Chilling. Lolling. Sprawled on my legs, as you do when you’re 11 weeks and cute and everyone loves you.

The great thing about being a kitten is that you can basically run about like a lunatic until you conk out asleep, anywhere. Really anywhere at all. Ernie doesn’t care if he’s awake at 3am, pottering at 5.30am and then fast asleep most of the daylight hours. Nor does his brother Bert.

Unfortunately, my stupid brain and body seem to have taken to operating on kitten timings. I’m unable to keep my eyes open about 7pm, napping on the sofa with the little hooligans until woken by my children. Fall into bed about now, but then I’m awake again at 2am.

I’ve tried staying awake later, going to bed at…wait for it, 11pm!!! But these days, post-sedative mood stabiliser periods, I’m just no good at night. Except when I wake up. At 2am.

I don’t fret too much about it, I often just have a little chat to myself, read or faff quietly on twitter. I’m usually asleep again by 4 or so, so my usual night’s sleep is about six hours… Could be worse.

But if only I could curl up on some lovely person whenever I’m exhausted, just make myself comfortable and drop off. That’s my idea of heaven actually.

Sigh.

I’d like to be a kitten. Not a sex-kitten, a real live kitten with a lap to flop in. Please Father Christmas. Thanks.

8 notes

Sunday 18th November 2012 

Shroedinger’s Hair 

If you follow me on twitter you may know that yesterday I dyed my hair. The colour - Dark Cool Pearl  BLONDE apparently - was not what I was expecting. 

When I read blonde, I think Agneta pale or Farrah Fawcett at least, rather than what actually came out a perfectly nice, but unequivocal brown. I’ve never had brown hair before and being a brunette for 24 hours was quite nice. 

I managed, inadvertently to pull the barman at the pub, so clearly it’s not a completely ghastly shade on me - I’m just not used to the colour yet. But in my usual impatient fashion, I decided that the tone wasn’t quite what I’d wanted. So I dashed to Sainsburys and bought something to lighten the ends. Wild Hombres or something. I liked the sound of this. 

So, feeling like a pro with my mixing bottles, squeeze containers and plastic combs, I sat and applied the goop to my hair in the kitchen. I can smell peroxide as I write. It’s quite nice. 

The overall effect is supposed to be a graduated dark brown dip dye look, going from brown to blonde at the ends. Obviously not having a clue about these things, I have no idea whether I’m going to look gorgeously sun bleached or just a bit Pat Butcher (yellow). It’s so exciting. 

Like Schroedinger’s cat, my hair right now is both perfect and a disaster. I love anticipation for that reason. The beeper has gone off, so I must rinse. The cat is dead or alive, but until I rinse, it’s both. 

*nervous face* 

See you on the other side…

Sunday 18th November 2012 

Shroedinger’s Hair

If you follow me on twitter you may know that yesterday I dyed my hair. The colour - Dark Cool Pearl BLONDE apparently - was not what I was expecting.

When I read blonde, I think Agneta pale or Farrah Fawcett at least, rather than what actually came out a perfectly nice, but unequivocal brown. I’ve never had brown hair before and being a brunette for 24 hours was quite nice.

I managed, inadvertently to pull the barman at the pub, so clearly it’s not a completely ghastly shade on me - I’m just not used to the colour yet. But in my usual impatient fashion, I decided that the tone wasn’t quite what I’d wanted. So I dashed to Sainsburys and bought something to lighten the ends. Wild Hombres or something. I liked the sound of this.

So, feeling like a pro with my mixing bottles, squeeze containers and plastic combs, I sat and applied the goop to my hair in the kitchen. I can smell peroxide as I write. It’s quite nice.

The overall effect is supposed to be a graduated dark brown dip dye look, going from brown to blonde at the ends. Obviously not having a clue about these things, I have no idea whether I’m going to look gorgeously sun bleached or just a bit Pat Butcher (yellow). It’s so exciting.

Like Schroedinger’s cat, my hair right now is both perfect and a disaster. I love anticipation for that reason. The beeper has gone off, so I must rinse. The cat is dead or alive, but until I rinse, it’s both.

*nervous face*

See you on the other side…

10 notes

Saturday 17th November 2012
My Naughty Little Sister
She’s not the messiah, she’s a very naughty girl. Well. Not really. She’s not especially naughty and she’s not especially messianic, but she is my sister and I love her dearly. I don’t see her nearly enough, and so the days that we spend together are particularly precious. 
This morning we took Meg for a delicious autumnal walk round the lakes, just Lucy and me and Ella. It’s fairly unusual for us to go out in a girly threesome, so today felt very special. The leaves were bright yellow, quite electric against a steel grey sky. While I write this, I can hear Lucy sight-singing Irving Berlin songs and trying out the accompaniment at the same time. Tricky stuff, but it’s what we grew up doing, out in the bundu of South Oxfordshire where the most exciting event of the day was the bus being late. 
In fact a common cause of falling outs between Lucy and I was the piano, when we were kids. Makes me laugh now, thinking how my children bicker over computers and televisions. We had a tv, but of course, being as old as I am, there was bugger all on during the day (if anything) and mostly we weren’t allowed to watch it anyway. So the piano was our main source of entertainment, housed in its own room where we could hide away and have the privacy that was not available anywhere else in the house, including our bedrooms. For some reason, we were not disturbed when at the piano, so it was the place to be when you had thinking, or talking to yourself to do. Yes, of course - talking to myself was a big part of my growing up years - wasn’t it for everyone? No? Hmm. Well anyway. 
Battling over who got to be at the piano was not just reserved for Lucy and I, but with our dad too. Mum, despite being the professional musician never seemed to want to play for pleasure. I never heard her practice, only really playing when she was teaching her private pupils. It didn’t seem odd at the time, only now as an adult, since I play as part of my job, but spend just as much time at home mucking about at the keyboard too. I cannot imagine not being able to play any music ever. I’d have to make an instrument from a tin can and some rubber bands, or a kazoo or something. 
The fact is, whatever anyone else thinks, it’s a piano that makes a house a home. I’ll sell everything I own before I sell my piano. I may have to live inside it at this rate, but never mind. I’ve digressed as usual. But no matter, my sister has just come to ask me to go and play the piano with her while she sings selections from Kiss Me Kate. I cannot refuse. 
At least we don’t fight about it any more. 

Saturday 17th November 2012

My Naughty Little Sister

She’s not the messiah, she’s a very naughty girl. Well. Not really. She’s not especially naughty and she’s not especially messianic, but she is my sister and I love her dearly. I don’t see her nearly enough, and so the days that we spend together are particularly precious. 

This morning we took Meg for a delicious autumnal walk round the lakes, just Lucy and me and Ella. It’s fairly unusual for us to go out in a girly threesome, so today felt very special. The leaves were bright yellow, quite electric against a steel grey sky. While I write this, I can hear Lucy sight-singing Irving Berlin songs and trying out the accompaniment at the same time. Tricky stuff, but it’s what we grew up doing, out in the bundu of South Oxfordshire where the most exciting event of the day was the bus being late. 

In fact a common cause of falling outs between Lucy and I was the piano, when we were kids. Makes me laugh now, thinking how my children bicker over computers and televisions. We had a tv, but of course, being as old as I am, there was bugger all on during the day (if anything) and mostly we weren’t allowed to watch it anyway. So the piano was our main source of entertainment, housed in its own room where we could hide away and have the privacy that was not available anywhere else in the house, including our bedrooms. For some reason, we were not disturbed when at the piano, so it was the place to be when you had thinking, or talking to yourself to do. Yes, of course - talking to myself was a big part of my growing up years - wasn’t it for everyone? No? Hmm. Well anyway. 

Battling over who got to be at the piano was not just reserved for Lucy and I, but with our dad too. Mum, despite being the professional musician never seemed to want to play for pleasure. I never heard her practice, only really playing when she was teaching her private pupils. It didn’t seem odd at the time, only now as an adult, since I play as part of my job, but spend just as much time at home mucking about at the keyboard too. I cannot imagine not being able to play any music ever. I’d have to make an instrument from a tin can and some rubber bands, or a kazoo or something. 

The fact is, whatever anyone else thinks, it’s a piano that makes a house a home. I’ll sell everything I own before I sell my piano. I may have to live inside it at this rate, but never mind. I’ve digressed as usual. But no matter, my sister has just come to ask me to go and play the piano with her while she sings selections from Kiss Me Kate. I cannot refuse. 

At least we don’t fight about it any more. 

8 notes

Tuesday 13th November 2012 

Gin 

In bed for an hour, about to sleep, I had a small gin & lime. Lovely. Sorry friends. Too tired to talk or type so wishing you good sleep too x

Tuesday 13th November 2012 

Gin

In bed for an hour, about to sleep, I had a small gin & lime. Lovely. Sorry friends. Too tired to talk or type so wishing you good sleep too x