Keeping Our Wits About Us
byOur first nights on the road again haven’t been without some ‘excitement’. By which I mean dramas. All part of the adventure, baby.
Our first nights on the road again haven’t been without some ‘excitement’. By which I mean dramas. All part of the adventure, baby.
I’m not just a bit of meat. I have feelings too.
You know that thing where you say something and then you have to eat your words? That. That is happening.
So you know how I’m a blogger who also happens to be a banker (with a ‘b’)? Well in three weeks that will change.
Although some media outlets sprouting stats of over 70% of our population in support of equal marriage rights in Australia, I feel I can’t let that stop me because the moment I pause for breath someone else seems to feel obliged to fill the silence with a contrary opinion.
Origin must have liked the first post I wrote for them because they asked me to do another.
“What are you watching?” Master9 asked me tonight. “Just an ad about gay marriage,” I told him. “Good,” he said. “People should be able to marry whoever they love.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t an ad for that….
I’ve decided to start collecting some of my favourite replies on the BFLI Facebook page. Be warned, you might end up here on the blog
So now I know what it’s like to be blogged about it. And, despite the unflattering portrayal, I like it.
The meat of this blog tour is basically where we bloggers answer four simple questions then pass the torch to three bloggers we’d like to introduce everyone to.
I know it’s not nice to laugh at someone else’s misfortune but people do it to me all the time so I’m feeling entitled.
We were at a friend’s place for dinner tonight and we were looking through their baby albums and pics on their computer having a hearty laugh at their children’s expense when it suddenly occurred to me we couldn’t do this. It’s not that we don’t have any photos, it’s that we have too many.
For most people I meet, one of the first questions they ask me when they find out I have a blog is, ‘What’s a blog?’
“I’m a bad mum,” Tracey told me as I went to jump into bed tonight.
“No, you’re not,” I assured her.
“I am. Look.”
She held up a diary of some sort. It was open at a page which she’d clearly written stuff on.
Jab. Poke. Stab. Prick. I hate needles. Even when they’re headed for someone else’s arms.