In which I write about my day
Jul. 4th, 2003 03:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleToday I did something thoroughly unusual. I abandoned my computer and DVDs and went for a walk. Now, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marymac will back me up on this being not my natural state of affairs (and then I'll slap her for being a cheeky wench).
Since I was listening to a funky mix CD I walked further than I normally would. And after a while, I started to take in my surroundings and made an uneasy observation: somewhere along the line, while distracted by the peppy tunes of They Might Be Giants, I had run out of houses.
Removing the earphones confirmed my suspicions. The comforting roar of traffic had gone, apart from a solitary tractor puttering sadly along the road at half a mile an hour. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
With a mounting horror I realised I was in the countryside.
Some might say that having grown up in a village with population 3000, 4 miles from the nearest town, I should be pretty countrified. (By the way, I use words like 'town' and 'city' in the broadest possible sense. My whole country has less inhabitants than San Diego). I hate the countryside. Folksongs be damned, the forty bloody shades of green may be pretty, but let's weigh this up. Cities have:
- bookshops
- HMV
- places where I can buy pizza and doughnuts
The country has:
- grass
- some trees
- cows
- some more grass
- cows on the other side of the road which are brown and white instead of black and white and have a look in their eyes that says "come here, little girl, so we can give you Mad Cow Disease"
- the tractor
...and that's really it. The fact that I've lived in the same house for all of my nearly twenty-one years and barely ventured a mile on foot away from it just goes to show that I was probably created by some monks at age 15 and given loads of false memories. It would explain why my pre-teen years are so fuzzy.
Needless to say, I got back to the village sharpish, which meant taking a shortcut past one of the graveyards. That's one, as in one-quarter of the number of graveyards in (as I've previously mentioned) a teeny village. My Hellmouth kicks Sunnydale's *ass*. One of the gravestones had a cheery poem on it I can't remember, but the upshot of which was "I used to be alive. And now I'm dead. And someday, you'll be dead too." That's my happy thought for the day.
I came back to the house, slammed the door behind me and fairly threw myself on the PC, lips quivering as I promised I would never, ever leave it for so long again.
And that's what I've done with my day.
marymac will back me up on this being not my natural state of affairs (and then I'll slap her for being a cheeky wench).Since I was listening to a funky mix CD I walked further than I normally would. And after a while, I started to take in my surroundings and made an uneasy observation: somewhere along the line, while distracted by the peppy tunes of They Might Be Giants, I had run out of houses.
Removing the earphones confirmed my suspicions. The comforting roar of traffic had gone, apart from a solitary tractor puttering sadly along the road at half a mile an hour. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
With a mounting horror I realised I was in the countryside.
Some might say that having grown up in a village with population 3000, 4 miles from the nearest town, I should be pretty countrified. (By the way, I use words like 'town' and 'city' in the broadest possible sense. My whole country has less inhabitants than San Diego). I hate the countryside. Folksongs be damned, the forty bloody shades of green may be pretty, but let's weigh this up. Cities have:
- bookshops
- HMV
- places where I can buy pizza and doughnuts
The country has:
- grass
- some trees
- cows
- some more grass
- cows on the other side of the road which are brown and white instead of black and white and have a look in their eyes that says "come here, little girl, so we can give you Mad Cow Disease"
- the tractor
...and that's really it. The fact that I've lived in the same house for all of my nearly twenty-one years and barely ventured a mile on foot away from it just goes to show that I was probably created by some monks at age 15 and given loads of false memories. It would explain why my pre-teen years are so fuzzy.
Needless to say, I got back to the village sharpish, which meant taking a shortcut past one of the graveyards. That's one, as in one-quarter of the number of graveyards in (as I've previously mentioned) a teeny village. My Hellmouth kicks Sunnydale's *ass*. One of the gravestones had a cheery poem on it I can't remember, but the upshot of which was "I used to be alive. And now I'm dead. And someday, you'll be dead too." That's my happy thought for the day.
I came back to the house, slammed the door behind me and fairly threw myself on the PC, lips quivering as I promised I would never, ever leave it for so long again.
And that's what I've done with my day.
