Things that go 'beep' in the night

Monday, the 3rd of July, 2006 - 5 past 11am

Current Song ~ "Ladybug's Pas de Deux" by Rosin Coven.

Something in the vicinity of my bed has taken to beeping once every few minutes.
I've ruled out the most obvious suspects - the mobile and the clock/light thingy - and am now completely and utterly bewildered.

(Also quite paranoid, judging by the fact that just before writing this I checked my new plastic-bean-stuffed owl for bleep-capable workings. That'd be a negative, followed closely by a 'well, duh'.)

I can only assume that I disturbed some small bleepy thing while hauling things in and out of that corner the day before, and must now dismantle the entire corner again in order to track it down. Most tiresome.

On the bright side, the original tidying effort had its interesting side.
I am a compulsive hoarder, and have been using the piling-new-stuff-on-top-of-old-stuff method of storage for longer than I care to think about.

The result is not unlike geological strata.
As I worked through this particular pile of my worldly possessions, I uncovered layer after layer of different evolutionary stages in the development of my interests.
Take away the surface layer of OU books and essay notes, and one discovers part of my collection of Cher/David Bowie/Sophie B. Hawkins-related magazines (and clippings thereof).
Beneath that lie the brochures (with their ever-so-cool cover photos) from back when I was seriously considering investing in a fretless bass guitar.
Move further down, and you reach the neatly plastic-sleeved print-outs of musical and medical FAQs from back when I didn't have a computer of my own and therefore had to print long articles for ease of reading and future access.

Of course, you also get the occasional oddity that was destined not to survive through the ages - the flightless snackus delicioso bird of my personal hobbies, if you will.
At the forefront of these, we have a secondhand volume of Growing Fuschias. I'd love to be able to claim that I don't know what I was thinking, but I suspect the answer to that would be 'it's 20p, and it could conceivably be useful in the distant future - verily, it must be mine!' (or words to that effect).
The local library must have adored me during their efforts to clear out old stock...

While I was reaching the end of that exciting voyage into my past, my family decided for some peculiar reason to watch the end of a football match.
To my untrained eyes, it seemed to involve considerably more flailing and falling over than one might expect from... well, from Brownies, actually. Thrilling viewing, it was not.

England's defeat was, with some degree of predictability, followed by a number of montages of depressing images (we like a good wallow 'round these parts), one of which was accompanied by Johnny Cash's cover of Hurt.
Sacrilege, obviously, and aside from that not the most brilliant message ever. Could they not have found something with a tiny glimmer of hope...?

I also caught the end of the match later that day, which was immeasurably better. My (equally football-phobic) father and I spent the last ten minutes cheering for France on the grounds that they really did deserve to win, and will continue to support them; albeit probably not in a way that involves watching more than fifteen minutes of any given game.

...And that, my friends, is likely to be the longest piece on that bloody national obsession that you'll ever see from me. Savour the moment; or alternatively, be glad that it's unlikely to happen again!

Gosh, this has meandered quite a way from where it started, and ended up excessively long in the process. With this in mind, I shall spare you my mixed feelings on the subject of The Singing Estate for the time being and get this uploaded.

Au revoir!


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