I had the exoskeleton of a blog percolating in my Limbic System but Mother Nature interfered.
Yes, it snowed in England. Again.
I’ve written a couple blogs already about this panic-inducing phenomenon, probably like once a year. This roughly corresponds to about how often it snows.
The weather presenters on the TV news were solemnly issuing dire warnings of massive accumulations of as much as 3 centimeters! Trains were cancelled and airports shut down. The spirit of the London Blitz kicked in and people reassured each other than ‘we’ll get through this catastrophic catastrophe because we’re British!’
I popped into Waitrose to stock up on the Two Basic Food Groups necessary for a siege- cigarettes and coffee. Every single other person in Weybridge was there too. They, of course, were rowing over the last six-pack of Stella Artois in stock. I did think about purchasing some Bud myself; after all, the AFC and NFC Championships are on Sunday night. And since the Eagles are most definitely not in the Big Dance, I probably won’t be tempted to throw full cans of suds at my TV.
Anyway, I hunkered down at home, bolstered by the Two Basic Food Groups, to watch the drama unfold on TV. The BBC’s intrepid reporters were out and about in Nanook of the North gear chatting to terrified Brits about the blizzard and the end of Civilization as We Know It. People, like, cried. Seriously, I thought that perhaps if people shovelled their sidewalks and the county salted the roads we just might possibly survive this holocaust, but apparently I was having another one of those pesky ‘American’ moments. That’s just not how they do things in Britain.
They’re predicting intermittent snow all weekend. Wow. Things might go to whatever is worse than catastrophic catastrophe. The snow might reach a mind boggling 4 centimeters! Can Britain ever recover from 1.37 inches of white stuff to its former glory? Stay tuned.
On to regular ‘me’ stuff, it was another ordinary week in Weybridge, but unfortunately, I fell off the Just Say No wagon. Somehow, I have agreed to model again in a fashion show in aid of Sam Beare in March, and I am now the Copy Editor of the Haderech.
The last fashion show was when I wasn’t blogging and it was hard work. Yeah, I liked the part when the fashion consultant took me to Marks and Spencer and gave me a giant clothes rail and told me to pick out four outfits including accessories. (I was very badly behaved and sulked when she nixed my choices.) And I liked the part where my hair and makeup were done by professionals. The part I didn’t like was getting changed in 3.4 seconds (with two helpers) to go back on the runway at my next cue. But I especially didn’t like the part where I came out in a black leotard and the moderator critiqued my shape and which styles worked best for me. (It was a while ago, but I’m pretty sure she described me as ‘perfect’.) Anyway, oops, I’m doing it again.
Cousin Bernie has retired as editor of Haderech. He’s shouldered that burden for many years. The technical side- layout and so on- is being assumed by a new member at shul called Jenny and I am going to handle copy responsibilities. One of the other members of the newsletter staff did make a teensy insulting remark about needing to edit my copy when I write something to ‘correct the Americanisms’. I felt like my honour was impinged. Honor. Honor. Honor. (Screw the little red underscores, British Spellchecker!)
I got the fancy-shmantzy Sky package when my contract was up for renewal, and after 8 weeks of training by BooBoo, I learned how to record programs to watch later. Don’t be impressed. I still ring her if I want to watch a DVD. I had a bunch of good stuff recorded for blizzard viewing and I curled up on the sofa to watch Midsummer Murders.
Something is wrong.
Maybe it’s just me, but is Barnaby not Barnaby anymore? I don’t think its fair to change people in mid-character. Okay, you’re right. It worked for James Bond. Like sixty-seven guys have been Bond, James Bond. But what does Mrs. Barnaby think when she has to sleep with some guy who’s a stranger? James Bond only slept with strangers so he didn’t have to explain that he was a new spy.
It was confusing and very odd. So odd, in fact, that I googled it. What a relief. Inspector Barnaby is off somewhere like Guernsey or whatever and his cousin, Inspector Barnaby, got his job. Oh! That makes sense. I’m American so I understand nepotism.
When I talked to Scary Fairy in our weekly catch-up, she intimated that the re-incarnated blog is not as funny as the old blog. Her take on the situation is that in the past glory days of the Grotto (the Grotto has closed its doors forever) the ‘pub’ friends were funny. My new, improved ‘posh’ friends are not.
So, please, posh new friends, put your thinking caps on and do some idiotic, inane, irresponsible, ill-conceived, imprudent and/or impracticable stuff so I can write a dynamite blog about it.