(Big Brother is watching from a) Social Distance
Thank God that’s over. Not the Kerfuffle, you eejit, yesterday. Because I gave up smoking yesterday. But that’s all in the past now, along with all the other things that are not actually happening right now. And right now I have, burning away merrily beside me in a cut-glass ashtray I nicked from my Ma’s house (when she had a house), what is probably, to those who enjoy camping out and to a genus of sea-based mammals, my fifth cigarette of the morning. But, in my defence, it has been a long morning so far, and will continue to be up until approximately 11.59, when it will become a busy afternoon.
You may deduce from this that my attempt to give up smoking was unsuccessful. In fact, you may deduce whatever you want from it: I am not in control (yet) of your deductions, or your faulty mental processes. So, for all I care, deduce from it that grass is green if you are that ignorant, or that Greeks have no word for blue just because one poet of theirs called the sea wine-dark – did none of those literary critics ever wonder from that whether there were, in fact, bottles of Blue Nun for sale in Greece in Homer’s time? As a point of information, Homer did not actually hang out in what is termed Ancient Greece either. Because, having no other choice, he lived in the exact moment we are all currently living in now, he lived in Greece, as do the occupants of that archipelago now, unless you are going to tell me that they live in Future Greece. Which I hope you aren’t, as neither the future nor the past exist. Go and read Four Quartets if you do not believe me. And you’re right, TS Eliot is indeed an anagram of Toilets, but it does not follow that his poetry is shit.
So my deduction that your deduction about my abilities in giving up smoking is wrong goes like this: I have given up smoking many times, sometimes as often as 9.3 times in one day, and am now pretty expert, and successful, at doing it. So put that in your clay pipes (excellent trigger for the funeral news coming later there) and smoke it, sanctimonious ex-smokers of the World. Indeed, each night I give up smoking for a period ranging from 3.2 to 7.6 hours, apart from the odd, wee sneaky feg if I have to wake up in the middle of the night to siphon the python due to my chronic, terminal condition (that’s enough death triggers now, I feel), which, most nights, happens approximately 2.48 times. So giving up smoking is not something I have any difficulty achieving. It is the continuing not smoking after having given it up that I find a tad tricky. But that is a completely separate issue, and, for now, I am concentrating my efforts on the giving up project.
But why, given all the advantages attached to smoking, would I even contemplate jettisoning my favourite hobby? Who knows? Not me, certainly. I never interrogate thoughts that pop into my head unbidden as to their provenance; it would seem rude, I feel; I mean, I have no idea how long of a journey they have made to get there. Maybe they came all the way from Russia, who can tell? (great link work coming up) Remember I promised I would show you the proof that mentioning certain words ici turns on an alarm in a wee spy’s computer somewhere, and the blog consequently gets a hit from the territory of the red bear? Well, take a gander at that pic up there. Yes, Mo’s birthday, 26 April, 2020 (and other years as well, probably), was the day I carried out that experiment and you can see for yourself the resultant hit on the map. So Big Brother is certainly watching me – and you, too. Live your life as if you are constantly under CCTV surveillance. Because you are.
Also from the pic, you will notice that we are doing quite well in term of flattening the curve of readership of the blog. In that regard, Rhona, you are not so much sacked as relieved of your ex-duties as ex-Marketing Manager. So take the rest of the day – and your life – off. The spike on that graph was CatGate, in case you have not been keeping up with your back reading, but we have already dealt with that threat. Houl on there, I have an urgent TEAMS meeting call coming through from someone. Play on the interwobble or something until I get back …
… well, now, that puts a different complexion on your dead granny, doesn’t it? That was ex-Marketing Manager Rhona on the TEAMS thing, and she uploaded to my confusion this graph:
And that indicates a different bucket of fish altogether, doesn’t it? That is weekly readership stats, and according to Rhona is proof positive that she was doing a good job and that we have not passed, or even come within a beagle’s gowl, of the peak yet. Remember, we’re all in this together, so if what you read here is to your liking, tell all your friend(s) about it. The sooner we get to the peak, the sooner we can pause for a while and have a wee rest and enjoy the view. And maybe a picnic. Bring your own, obviously.
Rhona is still sacked as Marketing Manager, though, and applications are welcome. Just don’t send any CVs, especially not 2CVs – I have no more room in the stables for them. She is, however, now the new Finance Director of the blog, and fair fucks to her, I say, and will also write in her official appointment letter. Her first duty as Finance Director is, of course, as a gesture of good will, to pay the back salaries of the staff from her own funds, and then to get herself onto the mis-government furlough scheme so that I am liable only for about 79.8% of her exorbitant nine-figure salary (most of the nine figures are after the decimal point).
Right. Enough beating around the bush. Margaret McKenna, RIP. My Aunt Margaret died in a nursing home yesterday from covid-19, among other things. That’s her down there in the pic, on the right. The other two are my (late) Ma and my (later) Granny, aka Margaret’s mother-in-law.
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a hanam uasal.