....or getting eaten by it.
first up, a story of woe.
Last time I had the temerity to start a journal a combination of factors from moving house to being equipped with the luck of Job prevented me from declaring my wanton follies publicly.
A boiler, garden and a couple of holidays later left my lady wearing a serene smile and me wearing last years trousers.
A goddess of luck, however, caught sight of my haggard expression from her latticed window on Olympus and pointed me down the Path of Much Toil.
A hammer, chisel and a couple of plasterers later an enormous castle with three small bedrooms and a pokey lounge was erected near Portsmouth and passers by stared at it with flatulant disregard.
In place of the planned Union Jack a for sale sign peeped from the place where a turret might have stood but decidedly didn't. For weeks it tickled merely the fancy of worried sheep and winter birds until a muttering Mrs Kennedy and her walking stick declared it the perfect place to raise dogs.
A handsome deal was therefore struck whereby she got the house and I got not very much a little late.
My epic monstrosity is now a kennel, but Mrs Kennedy was my rainbow and my study is now brightened by a little pot of gold.
And so...
Donning dusty spectacles and plotting myriad lines on baffling graphs has somehow persuaded me that i invest a portion of this heap of pennies in currency speculation for the futile pursuit of great wealth and a life spent on idyllic beaches avoiding coconuts.
To that end I have created a truly terrible plan comprising whatnots and thingymabobs in glorious array.
These 'tools' emblazon my charts in picturesque anarchy and tend to tell me where not to lose money. I shall describe these thrilling weopans later, derision not being my greatest foe.
first up, a story of woe.
Last time I had the temerity to start a journal a combination of factors from moving house to being equipped with the luck of Job prevented me from declaring my wanton follies publicly.
A boiler, garden and a couple of holidays later left my lady wearing a serene smile and me wearing last years trousers.
A goddess of luck, however, caught sight of my haggard expression from her latticed window on Olympus and pointed me down the Path of Much Toil.
A hammer, chisel and a couple of plasterers later an enormous castle with three small bedrooms and a pokey lounge was erected near Portsmouth and passers by stared at it with flatulant disregard.
In place of the planned Union Jack a for sale sign peeped from the place where a turret might have stood but decidedly didn't. For weeks it tickled merely the fancy of worried sheep and winter birds until a muttering Mrs Kennedy and her walking stick declared it the perfect place to raise dogs.
A handsome deal was therefore struck whereby she got the house and I got not very much a little late.
My epic monstrosity is now a kennel, but Mrs Kennedy was my rainbow and my study is now brightened by a little pot of gold.
And so...
Donning dusty spectacles and plotting myriad lines on baffling graphs has somehow persuaded me that i invest a portion of this heap of pennies in currency speculation for the futile pursuit of great wealth and a life spent on idyllic beaches avoiding coconuts.
To that end I have created a truly terrible plan comprising whatnots and thingymabobs in glorious array.
These 'tools' emblazon my charts in picturesque anarchy and tend to tell me where not to lose money. I shall describe these thrilling weopans later, derision not being my greatest foe.
quote of the day:
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It's like deja-vu all over again