Fantastic (well not really, but what can you do) Friday.

I promised myself, almost a New Year's Resolution actually, where I wrote that I would try and write a Blog post a week. Mainly because if I write a Blog post every single day, then it will eventually degenerate into things like: Got out of bed. Had a cup of tea and breakfast (bacon sandwich, toast, cerea) and then I get up and maybe do a bit of work, but generally I play games on my computer (another reason as soon as I can afford another Alphasmart tablet I shall get myself one) and I watch television. I might do a little work, but on the whole I am very, very lazy and that's not good. This illness hasn't left me particularly well either, and my appetite has gone south too which is doubly annoying. I used to love Edwin's food, but these days I can only eat part of every meal he cooks which is even more annoying. Most of the time I'm eating like a bird which is doubly annoying. I can murder sweet things - and could quite happily munch my way through a box of Ferrero Rocher, but proper food? No, I'm having real trouble eating any real meals which is actually rather frustrating. I want to be able to have a good meal, like Spaghetti Bolognese; Chicken Casserole or even Ham, Egg and Chips but the very thought of these meals still makes me feel slightly nauseous which is not a nice way to feel. I want to be able to enjoy food again, but it doesn't seem to be happening any time soon.

On the plus side, I've finally been able to get a proper photograph of the cup I won at Perton Show and I'm still totally amazed that I won - I just hoped that I would be commended and maybe even congratulated, in fact I'm still stunned even months later. I admit that you can't really see my name very clearly, but it's definitely there! So, for those of you who actually care, I thought that I would paste the poems that came first and second in the Perton Show - and yes, I'm still flabbergasted.

Bede’s Bird

The present life of man, O king, seems to me, like to the swift flight of a sparrow through the room wherein you sit at supper in winter, with your commanders and ministers, and a good fire in the midst, whilst the storms of rain and snow prevail abroad; the sparrow, I say, flying in at one door, and immediately out at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry storm; but after a short space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, into the dark winter from which he had emerged. So this life of man appears for a short space, but of what went before, or what is to follow, we are utterly ignorant. If, therefore, this new doctrine contains something more certain, it seems justly to deserve to be followed. Bede: Ecclesiastical History of the English People

We are all Bede’s bird -

Although this may seem quite absurd.

A sparrow shears through a golden hall,

Too fast to brake; too fast to stall -

Into the dark and frigid air -

And vanishes, we know not where.

Others ask, ‘Where does the sparrow fly?’

Some say to live; some say to die.

Cynics say there’s no bird at all,

Nor priest, nor feast, nor banquet hall,

But all is just a pleasant dream,

Of things hoped for, and yet unseen.

Yet in my travels I have heard,

Brave men have died to spread The Word

That we are all Bede’s bird.

Thalassa

When the men in front reached the summit and caught sight of the sea there was great shouting. Xenophon and the rearguard heard it and thought that there were enemies attacking in the front. However, the shouting got louder and drew nearer. Those who were constantly going forward started running towards the men in front, who kept on shouting. And the more there were of them, the more shouting there was. It looked then as though this was something of considerable importance. So Xenophon mounted his horse, and taking Lycus and the cavalry with him, rode forward to give support. And quite soon they heard the soldiers shouting out ‘Thalassa, thalassa, The sea!, the sea!’ and passing the word down the column.

Xenophon The Persian Expedition

I remember the grey sea first, before

My salt-caked hair; or my hands

Raw from hauling the boat’s sheets.

It is the cold sea first; before the wind

Catching the spinnaker, my father’s voice

Asking ‘Ready about?’ Waiting for my nod.

Blue, green, grey, phosphorescent waves

Are always with me before boat or yacht or island

It is always the sea.

Despite my years of sailing; Toppers, Lasers, Fireballs

Whenever I recall the Middle East,

It is always the ocean first.

So I hope all you readers like the poems and will try to write someting more erudite next Friday, or at least try to make it sound more interesting.