Notes on a Ramble.

The only positive about being sick, (physically ill where no food or water is able to be held within), is that once your stomach has calmed itself down, and accepts foreign bodies of food, you have an almighty excuse to eat anything, for the sake of your health. This afternoon I have consumed numerous frozen treats, purely because they're easy to eat (suck and swallow), they're cooling on the mouth, and they are pretty much just sugar which turns into the much needed energy that you're lacking.

Now, ignoring the almighty innuendo inserted (hah) above, I'm pleased to say that the consumption of various sticks of pleasure (heh) has sorted me out. As always.

What is WRONG with me?? I always get like this when I'm sick. I apologise. My god - my mum reads this... ah well, she knows I'm a complete freak of nature anyway. Nothing shocks her anymore.

So, I have inadvertently and unintentionally resumed my state of hermitage this weekend. I have done a lot of sleeping, and finished Northanger Abbey. This book was somewhat of a disappointment. It was a refreshing change to read something so lighthearted, but I had been given the impression, at a young age, that this book was a little bit scary and some themes of horror in it. The person who gave me this idea was wrong. It was the biggest pile of piss-weak lovey dovey bullshit that I've ever read (aside from Richardson's 'Pamela') and there were no scary bits whatsoever. I don't know why I'm surprised at this misinformation. It was my father, after all, that delivered it to me.

You may have noticed that he doesn't get much of a mention on this blog. There's a very good reason for that, and as I'm feeling rather open to day, and the only member of my family who reads this is my mother and she shares my view of my father with me and doesn't talk to him anymore, I shall tell you.

He's a mean old man.

In your head, somewhere, you've likely formed a stereotypical image of a 'mean old man'. I'm thinking you're thinking of some kind of scrooge like image; a small, weedy man with a perma-scowl, a fist full of money and the remnants of an evil comment on his lips. To get an accurate picture of my father, insert about 50kg and you're there.

So thanks, Dad, for giving me a false impression of a novel. Your input in my life has been, as always, something to remember.