Apparently, You Can Go Home Again

I haven’t had a lot of screen time recently.  This is what I’ve been doing while not staring at a computer screen:

Collecting train tickets and using them as bookmarks.

Eating pizza while watching my Dad attempt to play jump rope with an extension cord.  The morphine is working!

Meditating/crying while in a church.

Reading Naked on the train, while wearing clothes.

Drinking cider at The Scottish Real Ale Festival.  I’m such a rebel.

Getting a free copy of Rebecca from Sarge and World Book Night.

Having lunch with some of the bridal crew/maids of awesome.

Listening to Low while writing on envelopes until two whole pens are out of ink.  Mostly it’s this one on repeat:

Possibly the best cover ever.  John Denver makes me cry, but this one makes me infinitely happy.

 

What have you been up to?

Sunday Song: Wedding Processional

Dear Readers/supporters of our mawidge,

And so, on Friday, Sarge and I were sitting around talking wedding music with my Dad and Anne.  Our song is ‘The Book of Love’, and that’s what I’d like to walk/roll/whatever down the aisle to.  (We’d like to get piped out after the deed is done, but that’s possibly another post.)

The thing is this.  I like the Peter Gabriel version:

 

And Sarge likes the Magnetic Fields’ original:

 

And so so, we thought we’d put it to a vote.

Which do you like?

Since we are the ones getting married, we reserve the right to rig the vote, but thought this would be fun.

Have at it!

Love,

The Butterfly and The Penguin (that would be us.  Hi.)

PS.  We first heard this on a road-trip with friends, and not on Scrubs.  Neither of us were really into it, and missed the final episode.  There’s that, too.

Weekend Wanderings

My weekend begins on Friday, so we’ll start there.

I woke up and asked Sarge to make me a coffee. I did so nicely.

‘Can’t (the PA) do it?’

‘She doesn’t make coffee,’ I said. ‘She pours water into ugliness.’

‘Fair enough’, he said, turning on the coffee machine.

For the rest of the day I scribbled and read, scribbled some more and thought about organising my dresser-drawers. I opened them, and quickly shut them again. A story for another day, I thought. And then I chased the cat out of the bedroom not long before Sarge got home from work.

‘What should we do for dinner, be good or get take-away?’

‘The diet starts Monday. I vote for curry.’

And forty-five minutes later, we had pakora and Futurama in front of us. Futurama is one of those shows I didn’t realise I liked until I watched a few episodes. Either that, or Sarge won the coin-toss many, many nights ago and now I’m the one who says, ‘Let’s watch Futurama!’ Ours may be the only household where ‘bite my shiny metal ass’ just means it’s time to turn on the television. Most of the time.

On Saturday, we had salmon and eggs with soy sauce for brunch. Almost everything Sarge makes has soy sauce on it. Or in it. Or around it. I don’t complain because for one thing, I like soy sauce and b, I don’t cook.

Then we wandered up to the cinema to see Midnight in Paris.

‘What’s this actually about?’ I asked on the way.

‘It’s a Woody Allen film. So, Woody Allen.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said.

I love Woody Allen films. I liked this one because it had Hemingway in it. No, not my computer. The real one. Well, not the real one. That would have been really special. Yeah, I liked it. But as I watched Owen Wilson, I kept wanting to shout two words. ‘Blond’, and ‘Nose’. I didn’t. That would have been really special.

We went home and watched some more of the Northern Exposure Box set. I won the coin-toss. No, we don’t actually make decisions by tossing coins. Ever. Well, there was that one time.

And today, I’m scribbling and reading and scribbling some more. All while obsessively listening to this song:

Where has your weekend taken you?

Sunday Song: The Trolley Song

This one goes out to the happy, tipsy, singing sixty-somethings on the bus this evening.  And to all of you…