This is going to be a difficult blog post to write and I don’t quite know where to begin. I wasn’t going to write this, but I realize that I need to write this, I need to get these thoughts out of my head and onto pen and paper so to speak as a way of trying to deal with what’s happened to me.
While I’m reading through a wad of paperwork Andy shows me this picture, and in an instant I’m transported back to the 80’s, sitting at my Dad’s big desk learning how to program and play games on the awesome ZX Spectrum. Oh those were the days!
Now, back to work and the impending pile of paperwork…. :-/
I’m not a morning person. Never have been. Never will be.
I’ve survived the crammed commute of the delayed Victoria line, the over crowded Victoria station and the hoaching 507 bus to the office and am attempting to soothe my rather frayed nerves with some Porridge.
And honey. With extra sugar.
I’m so needing a damn sugar hit. Needing to feel human.
We started a tradition in our team of instead of having a normal “biscuit” tin, we took an old celebrations tin and filled it with yummy biscuits.
If you wanted a biscuit, it wasn’t a case of just grabbing the biscuit tin. No. Of course it wasn’t! You were entering into the “World of Celebrations” to receive some biscuitty goodness!
The World of Celebrations has been rather empty of late. There’s not been that much to celebrate with all of us going through the re-applying for our jobs process. Not particularly a nice thing to be experiencing.
But I’ve decided to at least try and boost the sugar levels of my team. The sugar high should give them something to smile about for a wee while ;-)
it’s in the oven, and the neeps and tatties are busy cooking!
Address To A Haggis
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace As lang’s my arm.The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o’ need, While thro’ your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight, An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve, Are bent lyke drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, "Bethankit!" ‘hums.Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi’ perfect sconner, Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view On sic a dinner?Poor devil! see him ower his trash, As feckless as a wither’d rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!But mark the Rustic, haggis fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He’ll mak it whissle; An’ legs an’ arms, an’ heads will sned, Like taps o’ thrissle.Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, Gie her a haggis!