Third Course: Dessert à la Sahara

Apparently we have recently experienced weather brought by the whispering zephyrs from the Sahara. Actually it feels rather more like the Mistral than a zephyr. (I have always thought what a lovely name the Mistral is, too nice to be wasted on such an unpleasant weather system, but there we go) It never ceases to amaze me how often we get weather supposedly from nice places, but never feel any of the more useful effects. The Sahara! Sunshine! Dry heat! But do we get any of this? No. We get a thoroughly undesirable blast of dirty sand which leaves a rather nasty residue on every car except mine. (Mine was sensibly residing in the garage and thus escaped Dessert à la Sahara)
This always happens. The weather systems wear themselves out as they travel, and somehow by the time they reach our pathetic little island, all they have to give are the end bits that nobody wants. They deposit, snigger, and move on without hanging about to watch what happens.
Excuse the disgruntled tone of my post today. I feel solarly disadvantaged. I’m sure that’s a recognized medical condition, and if it isn’t, it should be. 

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Sunshine State

Summer time came late this year
Grey clouds glowered from our sky
Rain fell heavy like my heart
Now the sun deigns to appear
And cottonwool clouds flitter by
And life on earth can truly start
Do we all live in a sunshine state?
Do we all want the sun to stay?
Do we care it’s a little late?
Do we love the sunny days?
Now birds are cheering in my ear
The flowers decided not to die
And the lark is soaring like my heart
We all live in a sunshine state
And we all want the sun to stay
We don’t care it’s a little late
And we all love these sunny days

On the Signing of the Charter (Yes I Know it’s a Certificate, but Charter Sounds so much Grander, N’est Ce Pas?)

There is nothing in the world quite like it when that quiet, slightly lugubrious man sitting next to you suddenly cracks a gentle smile and signs the piece of paper that grants you freedom to go wherever you like on your own. No, dear, delicately nurtured Reader, don’t panic. I do not refer to the prison release form (though I believe that is also a euphoric moment, for reasons which should be self-evident!) but to the signing of the Practical Driving Test Certificate.  Or the Second Great Charter, as I like to call mine. The First Great Charter was, of course, the one signed at Runnymede by a certain John and a lot of nobles who were breathing down his neck. The Second Great Charter is going to be more of a success, having been signed by someone who actually wanted to sign it. At least I think he did. Hard to tell with driving examiners. (I should know – much as I hate to admit it, this was my third run-in with them. And the LAST. Thank goodness)
When he hands you that piece of paper and says ‘good luck’ you feel as if someone just handed you The world on a plate. You are not sure what to say, and what comes out in the end is almost certainly not what you meant to say, being more gibberish than anything else. Much as you would like to appear calm and collected, and would have preferred to rise to the occasion with your customary command of the English language, all you can do is grin like a lunatic and witter something barely intelligible. I was almost afraid he’d take the shiny blue form back after that. (‘Good heavens no, you’re not fit to drive on your own. Look at you, grinning like an idiot and barely able to string two words together’) but thankfully he just got out of my car (MY CAR) and left me to gibber ecstatically to myself.
So there you are. Milestone. After a long battle I finally did it. And boy, does it feel good.

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Drowsy Afternoon

Humming clouds that hover overhead
Dim the friendly brightness of the yellow sun
Threat of storms implicit in their shade
Sultry heat, and birds have silenced all their songs
Drowsy afternoon, my tired eyes
Keep drifting shut despite my will to stay awake
The book I hold slips gently to the ground
And storm or no storm, I am lost in needed sleep …

Technophobia Horribilis

Ah, technology! The Computer Age! Wondrous oracles of time-saving paperless wisdom!
Now please don’t get me wrong. I love my computer. I love my smart phone. I love my ipod. It’s just … when they go wrong I really don’t love them so much anymore. I don’t think I’m unreasonable. When they go wrong, they go wrong. For instance, after years of faithful, relatively peaceful and quiet service, WHY has my laptop (whose name is Evesham) suddenly decided to vanish about a third of my writing files? And then, to add insult to injury, refuse me modification access to what’s left?
Why has Evesham gone on a vendetta against me? I’ve always treated him fairly well. I think. So why now has he transformed from the gentle, obedient, slightly rickety little old laptop I once knew and loved into a file-chomping monster who digs his metaphorical heels into the metaphorical ground rather like one of the more recalcitrant varieties of mule?
Technology! It’s all over me, get it off!
And what have you done with my files, you miserable excuse for a computer?
Please forgive me, I need to have a stand-off with Evesham. His reign of terror must end. And if it has to be the guillotine, so be it.
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