Subscribe: riseoutofme
Added By: Feedage Forager Feedage Grade B rated
Language: English
back  bed  day  don  good  home  hours  life  love  made  man  months  offspring  people  queen  time  world  write  years 
Rate this Feed
Rate this feedRate this feedRate this feedRate this feedRate this feed
Rate this feed 1 starRate this feed 2 starRate this feed 3 starRate this feed 4 starRate this feed 5 star

Comments (0)

Feed Details and Statistics Feed Statistics
Preview: riseoutofme


Updated: 2017-06-21T20:01:41.125-07:00


Happiness is .........


She made me hate porridge for a while.  For all of 9 months – a small price to pay. Way back when my hair was a crowning glory.  I didn’t do it on purpose she laughed wanting me to tell her again how I felt when I found out she was on her way.  Delighted, over the moon, awestruck, petrified.   When she arrived on a bright May morning, she was a little thing, all bunched up.  Exquisite.   First born.   Later, feet stamping with temper, heart softer than a feather pillow, she scalded her spirit trying to fill the expectations lurking in her head.  They’re driving me mad she’d cry, tears dripping down her cheeks, wrapping her arms around her brothers and sister, I don’t mean that really, I love them, I just want them to be good and listen.  Lying in bed, reading stories, making their hair stand on end with dark whispers of wicked witches and smelly, dark dungeons, laughing hilariously at the antics of the Twits and Dr. Seuss.   Little people crawling into her bed in the middle of the night to feel the warmth of her heart.She grew and grew.  Way too fast. Galloping out of the nest with barely contained optimism.  Good job we did there. Clapping on the back.  Small happiness edging out the heaviness inside.  Fly away Peter, fly away Paul.  Confident, capable, world is your oyster we said.  Don’t much care for fish, she said settling down to grow a family.  Trying, trying, trying.  Disappointment lingering at the turn of each calendar page, shrivelling the tiny people dreams.  Clinics, drugs, hope, test kits, devastation.  Tears dripping down her cheeks.  I just want a baby.  The cold sea separating us.  The distance too far to reach for her small hand and kiss it all better.24th August 2016 Louise Erin arrived into the heart of my baby.  Into all of our hearts.  I am so very happy with God.          [...]

The Chair


It’ll be great they said, all the time in the world to do what you’ve always wanted to do now that himself is retired – to take life just as it comes, to travel the world, anywhere that takes your fancy. The luxury of lolling around all day in your pyjamas if you so desire, time to venture into the unknown so to speak, take up some new hobbies, tackle projects that you’ve always aspired to undertake but never had the time, explore new interests, grow your own veggies, become completely self-sufficient, how exciting … you’re SO lucky, they said. Right.Have you any plans, I ask. No.  A man of few words.You must have some ideas?   Slight note of desperation in my voice.No, I don’t.  I think I’ll do absolutely nothing for a few months.  Give myself time to get used to this whole retirement thingy.  Relax, take it easy.Right. I gave him 6 months, in my head.Generous to a fault.  I would be a paragon of virtue for 6 months. Tolerance on legs, happy go lucky, isn’t life wonderful, la di da di da.  Six months, that is 180 days or thereabouts which is approximately 4320 hours, a third of which, 1430hours, I would, hopefully, be blissfully unaware of in the land of nod.  That left 2890 hours during which I promised to be on my best behaviour.  Easy peasy.Just over half way through the thousands of hours, the resolve began to slip a little, the halo appeared slightly tarnished, the temper a little less than sweetness personified.  Three months in and his life was most definitely in danger; big, dirty, black danger. The chair by the window that normally accommodates my weary bones was now no longer available.  Ever.  I would roll in after a mornings work and hover meaningfully … all to no avail.  Sensitive, new age man, me arse.  Will you have a cup of tea, I ask.  He never drinks tea.  Well sure, if you’re making one, I will.  Jesus wept.  This from the depths of my chair by the window, looking out on my garden with my birds twittering and singing to their heart’s content.  Insult to injury.  The tea is dutifully made. Courtesy and grace  somewhat lacking.  He, blissfully unaware of the rising athmospheric pressure.  I, to my credit, stop short of sulking.  Tea drunk, back off out to the working world.  Blue-arsed fly imitation for the rest of the daylight hours.   Later in the day, I approach the kitchen, thinking it’s mine now, where’s the crossword, have a pen, kettle’s just boiled.He’s in the chair. Again. It’s my turn, I scream.  Silently.  It doesn’t matter that it’s a scream because he is snoring.  Head back, mouth open, less than melodic noises escaping from the depths.  Ah, I hear his mother speaking in my head.   Sure he works so hard, poor man.  He must be tired.  She had her own chair, by a window too, which requires a papal dispensation for anyone other than her ladyship to park their bones in.She doesn’t have to do battle with the niceties of selfishness.     Master of illusion, I mutter.  Used to work so hard, I growl.  Will I smother him with the red or the blue cushion?  I could do it really quickly.  He wouldn’t feel a thing.  I indulge myself with misty dreams of a constantly available chair by the window, the sun shining through sparkling glass, the tantalising aroma of a dinner that I had no part in preparing, the pink pigs flying by.    I let it go.  I’m bigger than that.                         [...]

Worrying Concepts


It's been a while.

Three years of a while.  I don't know where to start.

I'm older but no wiser and I am now definitely an orphan.  A real orphan.  Gone are the founts of wisdom and compassion that I unwittingly depended on.  Gone is the life I blindly thought would continue forever.  In it's place, that old imposter, maturity, demands recognition.

Slowly, the realisation that I am now in the front row for the high jump is seeping into the withering grey matter.  

This concept is a little worrying.

The lord and master (he wisheth) is retired (albeit early) and has taken to the life of ease like the proverbial duck to water.  Embarking on all manners of adventures suitable for 30 year olds, he has put a serious dent in the number of cat lives remaining to him.  Having endured this state of chassis for nigh on 3 years, I can categorically say I will be taken out of the workforce in a box.  The offspring are threatening to make a grandmother out of me which is yet another worrying concept.  I am not altogether convinced that I am suitable material for this elevated position.  Thankfully, there is a body of water between the parents to be and this orphaned soon to be nana, granny, gaga or whatever other vile names that can be conjured up to describe this dubious honour.  I have also become invisible.

Where is the serenity and contentment that reputedly comes with the sixth decade?

Is it any wonder, given the state of the aforementioned grey matter, that the Muse has not passed Go, has not collected the 200 euro and is still awaiting the Get out of Jail card?

I am now going to push the publish button because I told my sister I would and she's all I have left. Did I tell you I was an orphan?  She's an orphan too.   She understands.



Aimless Love

Fluff ball of pup, in a sack below a bridge, mewling.

Big farmer hands give back the life, warning the missus not to become too attached. 
We have enough dogs, gruff voice, he’s not up to much anyways.

He’s a she, the missus said.
All the more reason then, find it a home.
Silent night, frosty morning.  Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

Mewling and yelping from a yellow haired child.  
Santa read my letter, he did, and he brought me a puppy for my very own, he did.
A girl puppy.  Mine. I love her black hair with the browny bits.  And she loves me the best.
I know cos she licks my face. 
Delicious doggy kisses.
Skittery puppy feet on shiny lino, dancing into our hearts.
Quiet, yellow haired child filled with years of aimless love.

Time gallops by.
The yellow bird of our hearts grows wings and soars.
Trusting us to love whats left behind.

Seventeen is a great age for a dog, everyone says.
Seventeen years of aimless devotion.
Seventeen years of the purest love.

How do you tell a far away, yellow haired child that the source of her joy is gone?





The Brother.He’s a bit odd they say.  Not unkindly.  Then, they are grown-ups with the tolerance and political correctness that comes with having walked the planet for a few years.   Everybody knows him.  The dogs and cats in his neighbourhood love him.  The children sometimes tease him and call him names.  He doesn’t seem to mind.  He’s been around a long time.  He is 62 years old now.  When he was born, into a bitterly cold February morning in the Ireland of the early 50’s, he was in a hurry.  Two months early and a difficult birth left him and his mother struggling.  There is nothing to be done, they said, shaking their heads.  We would advise placing him in a home where he can be cared for with the best possible care.  End of story. His mother wasn’t listening.  He came home.Home to a family where he was loved unconditionally.He suffered and grew.  He developed at a slower pace than other people’s children.  He eventually walked and ran with an exuberance that was enhanced by the inevitable delay.  He had a larger than life experience of being a little person.  Wandering away all the time.  Frightening the heart and soul from his mother’s existence.   Only to be discovered down the field by the stream watching for tadpoles for hours on end or sitting on the footpath near the main road waiting for the bus that would bring his daddy home from work every day at six o’clock.  I used to watch him when he was about 12 and went out into our back garden.  My mother loved the garden.  She planted the flowers, roses and lilies were her favourites but every growing thing was welcome as long as it threw colour into her patch.  We had a long garden with a flower bed all the way up the left side.  There was a vegetable patch at the end and a beautiful cherry blossom tree on the right.  It was the flower bed that pulled him inexorably away from us into a world beyond our reach.  He would stand stock still in front of a flowering peony or a  glorious full-blossomed rose, staring intently.  His hands would come out in front of him and a force beyond our comprehension would suffuse his body, stiffening his every fibre, making his arms and body tremble slightly, taking him away from us to a world where differences didn’t matter.  The tremor would pass and his hands would come together again and he would move on up the garden path to the next promise of relief.  He would spend hours out there.  I soon lost interest.  I was too young to understand.  I used to look at my mother, she would just nod and tell me to go out and play.He had a young, fierce temper.  Speech difficulties made it hard for him be understood.  Frustration made him bold and strong.  Made him cry and break things.  Made him tear his clothes.  Again and again.  We had a sewing machine in our house which sat permanently on the dining room table.  I would hear the soft clicking sound of the needle going up and down in the evenings as I lay in my bed in the room overhead.    At night, when he went to bed, I would hear the brother rocking himself to sleep in the old iron bed.  The interminable rhythm seeping into my being, lulling me into a primeval safety of unchanging patterns.  I didn’t know he was different then.  I even tried the rocking myself but it didn’t seem to fit me.  So I used to just listen and watch the four corners of the ceiling descend until my nose was touching them, rolling my head away when it got too frightening.The brother grew into a young man with the blinding expanse of approaching adulthood and limited possibilities.  One of his many obsessions growing up was the construction toy known as Meccano.  He loved to build and make things.  Hours would go by c[...]



(image) I wonder sometimes what makes people want to blog. To portray themselves as someone. With a life or without a life. It doesn't really matter. It has been a while since I wrote anything on my blog. I have thought about my lack of enthusiasm on and off and reasoned with myself. Made excuses even. Too busy. Nothing to say. Why bother. Who cares. Life is shite sometimes. And then theres no room for idle wondering. Anyway. The last year or so has been a time of change. Unsettling. Restless. Isolating. But today the light went on again. Which has me here dithering. I could write about the dismal hole in my heart gouged out by the death of my beloved Larry. But death happens, it is an inevitable part of living. I could write about another of life's inevitabilities. The empty nest. Even as I type that I can feel myself snoring at the thought of it. It happens. I could write about the delights of having the newly retired offering me cups of tea 500 times a day. I could also write about the weather. The choice is endless. There lies the crux. I never was good at making decisions.

Empty Nest



Its been a while.

Tempus fugit etc.

I'm wondering what I'm doing back here. I'm also wondering why I stopped coming here in the first place.

Thats a lot of wondering. Or wandering even.

A lot has happened in the year that I've been wondering or wandering.

Two of the offspring have gone to the other side of the world to spread their wings and not a backward glance between them. There is a tiny voice inside of me that screams "don't go so far away" but it disappears into the air.

The last of the offspring, in his final year, watching his siblings fly, is champing at the bit to test his own wings.

I didn't ever think when I was in the throes of rearing children that they would eventually grow up and want to fly so very far away.

How blind was I?

The house is rattlingly empty.

I miss them.

I want to leap to the other side of Xmas so I don't feel anything remotely resembling loneliness.

What right have I to feel this way when I have two of the offspring coming?


But I still feel like jumping.

Happy Days



Last year we had a quiet house. Just GB, myself and one of the offspring. The two peacocks off about their business, one in sunny Spain and the other residing with his lady love in the same city but it might as well have been on a different planet. There was no oonce-oonce music, no damp towels gathering mould under beds, no size 12's lying around waiting to be tumbled over, no dirty dishes growing mould beside the couch. Tasty edibles always available. It was very nice. And quiet.

But, now, they are back. The fruit of my loins, the reason for my existence for so many years, for various reasons, have returned to the nest. Oh joy of joys.

The damp towels are breeding. The bedrooms seldom see the light of day before noon. The oonce-oonce is a constant background rumble. The fridge is always empty. The lights are on all the time. The dog is ecstatic. The friends call constantly for entertainment and to help empty the aforementioned fridge. Late nights. Sore heads. These things, you might say are all part and parcel of family life. And you would be right.

But you know what drives me crazy?

The 27 odd socks that I counted today.




Funny how a seemingly innocuous, random, run-of-the mill visit to a medicine man can stop you in your tracks and turn everything slightly upside down, inside out and every which way but the way you expect it to be.

Today, as I closed the surgery door behind me, I watched my life passing me by as I waited for it to begin.

Auto-immune disorder. No cure. Live with it.


Bring on the dancing girls, raise high the roof beams, throw off the winter woollies, smell the rain, shake off the hibernating cobwebs.

To hell with the to-do lists, I'm busy breathing.

Lizard Fatigue



I suspect that lizards really only come into their own when the sun shines. They don't much like the cold weather. Frost, snow and ice are like the kiss of death to some of them.

Credit to Mr. Newberry for his diagnostic skills.

Zoning Out



Today is the last day of November.

Tomorrow I don't have to post if I don't want to.

That's the way it should be.

Not that I didn't enjoy the month.

I did.

But having a low boredom threshold with myself and my wonderings, it'll be good to just visit and comment on other people's blogs instead of blathering on and on about me.

So, as and from tomorrow, I'm zoning out; off to wander around the blogs of visitors that I have shamelessly neglected for the duration of Nabloblahblah.

I'm looking forward to it.

Thanks for visiting!




The sun came out yesterday.

It was lovely.

The sky was blue with only a few fluffy clouds skittering about and the rain fell down just a couple of times.

Hysterical with the brightness of the day, we abandoned the usual, humdrum activites that occupy a Saturday and hightailed it down to the seaside.

We motored through the familiar landscape that was now, due to the bucketting down of the last 3 weeks, strangely unfamiliar. We made several detours around large turloughs that have been lying dormant for the last decade or so, waiting patiently for their chance to glisten.

We had the flaggy shore to ourselves; listening to the docile lapping of the water against the rocks, feeling the salty sea air sweeping the cobwebs out of our moisture-sodden minds, it was easy to be happy.

At 6pm we went to the exhibition. The invitation had arrived earlier in the week. He who would like to be obeyed, groaned. "Well, if you REALLY want to go ..."

He's not a great fan of the visual arts but he is quite tolerant.

Michael Gemmell was one of the artists. He's a quiet man with a colourful past.

It is difficult to do justice to the visceral wonder of the man's creativity. His work speaks for itself.

I'm not even going to try.

But every fibre of my being tingles with recognition.

art work: Flying Over by Michael Gemmell.




Blue-footed Boobies.

I didn't know that some of them had feet.

photo credit:

The Wanderer



For 27 years I have filled a Xmas sock for her.

But not this year.

Because now she is wandering far from sockland.

On August 19th last, herself and her main man packed their rucksacks, waved goodbye to their safe lives and ventured forth to travel the world. They bravely took themselves out of impending settledom, gathered their nerve and flew to adventure.

So far, they have rattled their bones in Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador and are now languishing in Peru.

She is the first born. A good girl. Responsible, hardworking, loving and caring. And careful.

This was a big decision for her.

I'll miss her dreadfully but I wouldn't wish her here for all the tea in China.

Victory Verse for Molly



5 more posts and then it is done
Nabloblahblah will have run its run
Will I be sad, will I be down?
Will I be wearing a worried frown?

I think, dear reader, that the answer is no
For inspiration has hit an all-time low
Me marbles are rattling, me eyes are bloodshot
The hour has arrived to take to the cot.

25 long nights have seen me toil
Mumbling and fumbling with the midnight oil
I should have said this, I should have said that
Conundrums, indeed, they'd baffle a cat.

For as you may know, I promised the Molly
That once again, I would, indulge in this folly
Posting and blathering for the month of November
Was 2007 that hard to remember?

But, Molly my dear, the plan has succeeded!
The kick in the pants, that was very much needed
Has taken me back to the pleasures of reading
The blogs of the many, so worthy of heeding.

So when the days of November are nowt but a dream
And my life has returned to its normal regime
I'll be writing less often but reading much more
Having all of the pleasure and none of the chore!

image credit:

Wordless Wednesday



No. 2 son, temporarily residing in Barcelona, thinks that I have one of these growing in the back garden.

Umbrella Season



Its been raining here for the last 3 weeks.


One gets weary of the constant wetness.

The sudden drenching of the feet as one decides to dash across the grass thinking one has feathers powering one's shoes. The decision to air the body after one brief glimpse of brightness behind the clouds only to be deluged upon 200 metres from the dryness of the house. The water levels rising, at an alarming rate, in the mighty river Shannon which flows nearby, too close for comfort. There haven't been floods like this for 100 years, the weather people tell us.

We haven't had to evacuate yet but we are on "alert". The weather forecast for the next week is "more of the same". All around this small green island, people are being evacuated from their homes. News reports carry pictures of young families being hoisted to safety on to army lorries, old people being piggy-backed from their homes on the backs of kindly neighbours, farmers weeping at the sight of their fertile fields being transformed into lakes of bankruptcy. Business people looking on in disbelief as their stock floats away on the torrents streaming through their premises. Emergency services stretched to capacity and beyond.

It is unbelievable.

But one just worries about the wetness of it all.

Sometimes, one thinks that one might be better served to be a realist rather than an optimist.

photo credit:

Time for a Little Temper Tantrum



I like to think that I am a fairly well balanced, normal individual. I don't have any outrageously disgusting habits and my temperament is, usually, of the easy going variety. Nothing fazes me, most of the time.

But last Saturday, I shed the mantle of tolerance.

The Queen had asked if I would drop in and visit with the brother in law who was down to do his filial duty for the weekend. I suspect it wasn't out of concern for the brother in law that the request was made. Her own tolerance of this particular individual is a little strained, to say the least.

He has always been difficult. Laden down with baggage that he has never acknowledged, let alone dealt with, he storms through life with an enormous chip on each shoulder. His storming is greatly exacerbated by his overdependence on alcohol to see him through, what he perceives to be, difficult situations. One of these situations is his monthly visit at the weekend to care for his parents.

I arrived at 4pm intending to stay for an hour or so. He was slouched in front of the TV, beer in hand, glared up at me and snarled "What are you doing here?"

"Just passing by and I thought I'd come and see how you were" I said lightly.

He then proceeded to tell me that he didn't need people checking up on him and that he was very capable of caring for the old folks without any supervision.

"Where are they, by the way?" I enquired.

"Front room" he barked.

I went into the front room and found the Queen in an agitated state, the result of an earlier argument, and the main man drenched because "somebody" had neglected to enquire if he would like to go to the bathroom. Having done what was necessary, cajoled and placated Her Majesty, made the main man comfortable again, I then felt something snap in my brain. Anger seeped through every fibre of my being.

I went back into the other room and let him have it.

What did he do?

He picked up his phone, rang GB and told him he'd better come pick "her" up because "she" was having a temper tantrum.

This man doesn't know how lucky he is to be alive.

10 Reasons to Smile



1. Sunshine through the clouds.

2. Puppy chasing his tail.

3. Wind blowing, drying the laundry.

4. TV broken.

5. Repair man fixing my bicycle free of charge.

6. The sound of someone humming.

7. Walks on the beach, whatever the weather.

8. Finishing anything.

9. Postcards from afar.

10. December 1st.



(object) (embed)

This piece of music takes me to the inner places of my ancestors, to places that I cannot remember.

Even without memory, my body responds to it on a cellular level, recognising some deep connection that defies my senses.

My rational mind would like to know why some musical pieces touch the core of one's being while others just drift past, unrecognised.

But my spirit doesn't care.

Its just happy to go along for the ride.

The Queen


The Queen is a mighty woman.She was born in 1924 in a small town in rural Ireland. Her mother, who was only 19, died of a fever when the Princess was just 9 months old. Her father, being young and a little foolish, was at a loss as to what to do with his baby daughter. Enter the Queen's maternal grandmother, herself a formidable woman, and, he was off the parental hook. Away with him across the water to London where the streets were, supposedly, paved with gold. Neither sight nor sound of him for 10 years. Roseanne put her heart and soul into rearing her grandaughter. Abject poverty was the norm on the street where they eked out a meagre existence. But she managed to see the little Princess through primary school and insisted that she continue on with her education so that she could, eventually, get a grand, steady, pensionable position working for the Government. The Princess was an intelligent, good looking child. She grew to be an articulate, hardworking woman. She landed herself the prized government position and left her grandmother's home. For a life of freedom and a little wildness in a slightly larger town about 70 miles from where she grew up. She enjoyed being a grown up. Boyfriends and dances, bus trips to Dublin and bicycle rides around the countryside. And then she met himself. The tall, handsome army man who swept her off her feet. And out of the arms of the man she thought she loved. When they married in 1953, she relinquished her tiny Princess tiara and readily accepted the heavy duty crown that was part and parcel of her new position. She moved into the role of Queen like a duck sliding into a pond.She was, like most Queens, quite ignorant of housekeeping duties. The arrival of the royal offspring, all 8 of them, within 10 years, was, to say the least, a bit of an eye-opener for her. But being of the blue-blooded brigade, she rose to the challenge and loved and nurtured them beyond even her own expectations. She loved and ruled with an unquestionable passion. Her devotion demanded very little in return. On one royal occasion, himself and the princes and princesses forgot the importance of the Queen's birthday. Boiled eggs were served for the nightly repast, in silence. This ensured that the 2nd of October was never overlooked again. Her family was the reason for her existence. When death deprived her of one of her children she, temporarily, lost her will to go on. But time, as it does, softened that wound.She worked hard at creating a home filled with love and laughter. The royal offspring blossomed under her care and eventually left the palace to seek out their own kingdoms. Himself retired and they filled their days with gardening, winemaking, reading and the occasional jaunt across the waters to strange, exotic lands. When himself had a stroke back in 1995 their lives changed, inevitably. Gradually, they became old and dependent. The Queen was not amused.Being an intelligent Queen, she knows that she has been blessed with a good life. She knows that she has no real reason to complain. But it is difficult. She is heartbroken watching her life partner of 57 years lose his zest for life; she watches him battle with the words that are on the tip of his tongue but refuse to be spoken; she looks at him while he struggles to put one foot in front of the other, worrying in case he should fall. She lives in a constant state of fear. Fear of life. Fear of death.Her bravery is a humbling reminder to me that that we are all vulnerabl[...]

Feeling no Pain ...



I had the best of intentions today to write a non-moaning post about the magnificence of being alive.

I got lead astray.

Delicious eats at a favourite hostelry, Milanos, accompanied by 2 bottles of Pinot Grigio, scintillating conversation, and the solving of the world's problems.

Now I'm home and feeling no pain.

Life is good.

So tis away to the bed with me.

I'll sleep to fight another day of Nabloblahblah.

Codhlamh samh!

Wordless Wednesday



One of the wettest places in the world.

The kingdom of Kerry.

The Offspring



Sometimes it frightens me.

The depth and strength of the feelings that my children can generate in me.

Especially when they are not around.

The photo above was taken at No. 1 daughter's wedding in London last August.

When I look at this picture, I recognise the people in it. I know that I love them dearly, that I would gladly die for them. They make me outrageously happy. They fill my soul.

And yet, part of me feels detached from them.

To the point of barely recognising our connectedness.

Is this the way its supposed to be?

I don't feel sad.

I'm just curious.

From Nowt to Nod.



Today's letter for inspiration is N.

Nought, nil, nada, nothing, nonsense, nearly, never, normal.

This is where my brain has landed.

The Land of Nowt.

Which must mean that I am going to moan, again, about having nothing to write about and no inspiration.

But never fear, there's bound to be some nonsense that I can unearth from the nether regions of my normally fertile imagination.

The Land of Nowt is a notorious place. The inhabitants are rather neanderthal in appearance and are encumbered with a somewhat narky disposition. They like nothing better than to nibble on nachos and nuts while nattering incessantly about the niceties of nooky . Nooky , or the lack of it, occupies their every waking moment. Woebetide the nuisance creature that would, with nerves of steel, dare to dispute the necessity of having a regular supply. The naive creature would end up with his neck in a noose, his nauseating screams the stuff of nightmares . Neither the nightingales in their nests nor the numerous nomadic nuns could save him from his nemesis.

So be wary reader. If you should happen to find yourself navigating your way through the nasty narcoleptic narrows of nothing to write about, don't go anywhere near the Land of Nowt. You may not live to tell the tale.

Now I am away from the Land of Nowt to the Land of Nod.


photo credit: