Thursday, 9 May 2013

Living In Idleness

The thing is, I love to write. There is something so therapeutic about the gentle 'pudd-pudd' of my fingertips skipping across the virtual keypad in front of me. Today's challenge, writer's block. I'm fed up with God, the poet's run out of inspiration, and my daily round is too mundane to mention. I will mention it though, just for fun:

Wake Up
Check Blog
Write email
Think About Getting Up
Listen to Radio

To Do:
Get Up
Art Class

Writing a List always does it for me. Here I go again:

Aowl and I had great fun the other day trying to get the microphone to type for us.. Its potential for the literary aspirations of a one-year old are pretty staggering I think, but what was typed up made no sense. What does? (Broad smile: Maybe something: Maybe sometimes.)

(A feature of an ipad. You talk to it, and it talks back. It is a Two on the Enneagram. It lives to serve.)

Microphone Man, Let's call him Cyril, when asked to write something for me, was very helpful. ' I don't know what you mean by, 'Write something for me. How about a web search for it?' I admit to being impressed. Technology is so cute. No sense of the ironic, doesn't know when it's leg is being pulled, just cute.

Having time on my hands, I actually took Cyril up on his offer, and a whole new world has opened up for me!

I was taken to a website wherein I can register to write papers for students with deficiencies in the honesty department. Nobody's perfect. The paper I wrote on the ferns growing in Prince of Wales Park in Bingley, in order to escape the local College with a Certification in Education, owed much of it's content to,' The Observer Book of Ferns'. I'm in no position to judge.

Why in heaven's name, did I choose to write a paper on the ferns in The Prince of Wales Park? I don't remember, though I do recall my horror at finding just the one variety when I made my foray into the damper regions of this particular pleasure garden. Though the park was a mere five minutes walk from my digs, I did not, in the end, have to leave my bedroom to complete the assignment.

If the University of Leeds wishes to strip me of my Certificate in Education (Mary Cook, 1972) I invite it to be my guest. I wouldn't return to teaching for a pension. Oh! Wait!

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