I really need to pull up my blog-socks, I fear. If this humble gathering of cyber-clutter were a Tamagotchi, doctors would be saying, 'We need this bed for more deserving palliative patients'.
I grapple with feeling guilty about blogging about my life rather than LIVING it.
Maybe because everybody else so-conveniently Facebooks (the verb 'to Facebook' eeuurgh!) albums' worth of photos, which may or may not be more convenient than blogging, and may-or-may-not reach a greater audient (singular). Nonetheless I do not wish to make all my photos the property of Facebook. One of my many pathological aversions on the topic of public-versus-private for the pugilistically paranoid. Orright, then, on with the show.
The musical menagerie multiplies: I have custody of a a U-bass, a ukulele bass. Beautifully hand-made by luthier Stephen Naughton as a gift for Mic Conway, strung with al dente spaghetti, it's an intriguing li'l mite to tame. Before my first outing with it, I concocted a hula-strap. For every hundred-or-so such whims, 0.1 get past (and passed in) the Procrastination Parliament. I only followed through on this 'un because I knew Mic would simply love it (the strap).
No sense of scale with this instrument, unless I picture it next to a house-and-garden uke... thusly:
I'm hoping to be papped, so I have representation of us in action. It hasn't happened yet... to my knowledge!
