OK, so 2 little ducks is 22. But at least I admit I'm wrong.
I did have a post for the 3rd, but it buggered again so I lost it. I also had the first bit for my Thing of the Day, but I think I lost that too. And remember, if you have anything good that you would like put on there (including a plug for your site), just
bug me. I enjoy being bugged, except by those Spanish weirdos who keep sending me viruses. Quittit!
So what have I done these last few days? Umm... coursework. Maths, and it hurts. Yesterday I had to count words and word lengths in articles about Anna Kournikova's exit from Wimbledon. Oh, the pain! The immense pain! Damn you Edexcel for your stupid coursework!
Counting newspapers. It is completely pointless, completely ridiculous and completely and utterly not going to get me my expected grade.
On a lighter note though, I was on the radio today! I had Drops of Jupiter played on Virgin. I requested it!
So apart from that? I've been making a ... no ... THE bag. It's a beaded thing, peyote stitch round a tube, and it's going to be the best bag I've ever made. Cooler than the Ladybird, funkier than the Snail, this will be the bollocks of all bags!
Maybe not, but it's bloody good and will take bloody ages. When I'm done maybe I'll scan it in to show it off. If I haven't written it already on here, I have a thing with bags. And a lot of bags to feed that thing. About 30 at last count, but that's mine and my sister's combined collection.
Now I'm talking crap, and this is supposed to me talking about what I've been thinking about, hence being called 'An Outlet for my Mind'. I have been wondering who is the real power behind George Bush, because he definitely isn't running America. But I can't really talk about that in case I get arrested for spreading politically volatile infomation. But when he talks he does look like someone has their hand up his backside.
So I guess we can't ignore the up-and-coming 1st anniversary of September 11th. I remember the day well, it had all the qualities of a bad time in the making from about 9am. Bear in mind we're a few hours ahead over here. I had IT, always a drag, and found out that I had knits. Lovely, I know. My head was itching like bitten hell, and I had come on without any pads. Even lovelier. I was behind on my viola practise so would spend the evening playing that. Then I got a text message that America had been attacked. America, impregnable fortress of the west, had been hit. I'm the kind of person who reacts to things like that by feeling physically sick, and when the words '30,000 body bags' were uttered I had to leave the room. I got no practise done because I was glued to the telly, news breaking every moment. Most wanted man in the world hidden in a cave, suicide pilots trained in America, sveral flights still unchecked. It was the nightmare that was never supposed to happen, only in Hollywood blockbusters, where Bruce Willis came and saved the day before it all went wrong. Had Hollywood finally predicted its own destruction like a hell-sent prophet? Everything buzzed round in a whirr of dust and trapped victims beneath the rubble of the World Trade Centre.
And now we get the trashy programmes about it. Dramatic reconstructions and tales from survivors, we are told about how George Bush and Tony Blair engage in a war on terrorism, which they do by killing their own troops in helicopter crashes. No Osama Bin Laden, he's still in a cave somewhere, laughing at the west as they wage war on an abstract noun.
