Units of faffage

This month, I have mainly been on holibobs. And training for a marathon. And readling lots and lots of Rebus, I mean, Rankin, in order to clear my head for the writing marathon ahead. I’ve been carefully storing away faces and far away places in my head, ready to re-draw them on the page, or maybe screen. Still not in love with my plot, but must try. Fail. Try again. Fail better. And all that jazz.

Speaking of which, precisely how much is ‘all that jazz’? Is there a unit of faffage beyond which things simply become ‘jazz’? Although, in some cases, jazz can be a positive – when it means snappy and you know, hep. Which simply proves that the lexicographers and the discographers rarely meet, as otherwise any fule no that jazz would have more words in it. And less. Staccato. Noi.Ses. With _weird_ emphasis onthenoteyouweren’texpecting. Which sounds not unlike a male cat having a bowel movement. If that cat could read. And what it was reading was the Daily Mirror. An article about wild dogs in Tonbridge.

So. Things pootle on. I had cause to speak to a professional blogereuse the other day, and I was reminded that one should really write every day, regardless. Well, I have been blogging most days, but it is mainly of the ‘this is the random pain in my left knee that kicks in after twenty miles’ variety, which I am fairly sure my one reader could do without.

Happy, though. Happy because my favourite word is once again ‘serendipity’. For a while ‘mellifluous’ was nosing ahead, but frankly, it’s not a word one can shoe-horn into conversation all that often. Hmm. I bet there’s a really posh word for shoe-horn. That is, not feeling sexually aroused by shoes, but the spatula that inserts the delicately turned heel of the bourgeoisie into on’e hand-made pumps. Although I heard on Radio 4 the other day them describing the process of creating ‘Taste the Difference’ cakes as being hand-made. As. If. It was made from hands. Chocolate hands. With frosting and hundreds-and-thousands on. Just to confuse CSI.

Dr O’Chief is writing. He laid down the challenge. Said he would write 50k words in April or some such nonsense. And because it’s him, he probably has. I will have my revenge though. By being funnier than him. And removing April from the months in which literature is allowed to be written.

I’ve never eaten a daisy.

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