There is no very literary word for sulking. That’s what I’m doing. Sulking. This is my third straight day of not being able to properly open my Twitter account, and I am having to sneak a lonely tweet in here and there from my blog site. It’s also the second Friday in a row that I am missing my Follow Friday festivals of love. I miss all of my Tweeps too – another very non-literary word – but hey, what the hell, I am sulking after all.
My grand and regal knight of that lovely blue sky @twiterhero, must think that I have abandoned him for another lord, and my sweet and musical @themarlinnelson has probably moved on, and is already sending the gentle vibes of my favourite song of the African rain to a new dragon now.
Missing my blue birdie daily fix, I seem to have fallen into a cycle of mindless nibbling, and the look of horror on my husband’s face when he opened my desk drawer for something innocuous – an envelope I think – and suddenly found his ankles awash with squished up chocolate wrappers, chip packets and a variety of half eaten bags of biscuits that I had foolishly stuffed in there with some force, thinking never to be discovered, made me blushingly decide to get a grip, and analyse where I had gone wrong.
Beginning to list the various of my failings that probably need to be addressed, I pondered some of my more obviously aberrant behaviours.
Such as why I chased an invading rat out of the kitchen door with a broom, screaming, “Vermin!”, like a banshee, rather than gently putting down bowls of water for him, as I do for Prince (the frog), when Prince has some pretty alarming hygiene deficits himself.
And also why, having found myself carefully lifting rose beetles out of the sink to put outside, did I soon after take great pleasure in stomping on an unsuspecting visiting roach, when said roach was clearly just passing through on his way to the window, and the rose beetles are now very likely chomping down on the pale petals of my Queen Elizabeth.
That, I am sure you will be relieved to know, is about as far as the self-examination went. I can’t think of a good enough reason to be any less odd than I am. I’ve found a nice basket anyway, to stash my illicit vittles in, and I should be safe, unless my dearly beloved decides to take up knitting.