Following on (or up) from today's comments about my lack of accurate knowledge about hedgehogs, I can assure that if I knew what I was talking about I would not be blogging. If I had specialist - or indeed any in depth - knowledge about anything, I would be using it to write for specialist publications. So you may not get depth here at hhn, but you do get breadth - although a quick review of recent in-depth hhn topics does reveal that the My Favourite Sandwich Debate was a winner with everyone. (At the cricket the other day, Styx languidly informed me that he would have quite happily continued this particular debate for many many more days.)
(Incidentally, Eel Man's recent* observation that I was "an unreliable animal witness" still hurts - like hell.)
Which - as always - does beg the question about what we should really be discussing here at hhn? Politics? Nah. Tried that last summer. Music? Styx-vetoed. Women? hhn has a strict gender sensitive editorial line. Drugs? No. My mother in law reads this site (when she is not admiring her new facebook account). mrs househusbandnot? Absolutely off limits, since - as I have mentioned before - the fact that I am happy to bollox on about myself does not make it open season on mrs hhn who is fundamentally a more considering and considerate and polite and private person than I am. My work? Too worried about getting fired just as my portfolio of work is getting back into a decent stride. Madame B? She just won't tell us the details we really want, or send us a photo. My mother in law? See above. The excellent rumour I heard at the weekend about two very, very famous black sportsmen having an affair? Too worried about getting sued. Which kinda leaves me and the wormery.
So quite a lot is off limits, especially for a blog which is supposed to be the super levelling unedited honest medium du jour. You can see why I go for the cheap laughs with the hedgehog stuff, no?
In other news, a stuffy little blond volunteer at the office today was talking about my (male) colleague and saying he was no oil painting. And then she turned to me and said "And neither are you". Am considering how to get her fired, which may prove tricky since she is closely related to my boss. Offices. Dontchaluvthemsomuchitmakesyouwanttoweeyourself.
*Well, last year, almost to the day.
Jul 10, 2007
Jul 9, 2007
Hedgehogs And Tshirts
Thanks for your various comments re hedgehogs and hhn tshirts. Who's the prick in the tshirt? Boom boom. (Madame B, who is the person who could do these tshirts for me/us? Pray tell. I'm thinking manga with hhn in Japanese. [Am quite into Madame B at the moment btw because her prediction about my mint being stringy was 100% accurate, as I just discovered urban warrior-like standing on my balcony munching my mint straight from the pot.])
Elsewhere in England, managed to avoid the Tour De France in Kent yesterday despite being v close - approx 1,000 metres - to it. Instead, slumped on a sofa at my sister's farm and read The Sunday Telegraph and HedgeGrowers Weekly and watched Wimbledon while others were trudging across fields for four seconds of bike-related spectatoring. (Actually, I was stuck trying to sort out my sister's and her daughter's itunes for most of the morning, requiring some serious rnr post lunch.)
What else? Had long - well quite brief as far as I am concerned because she was wrong - debate with mrs househusbandnot the other night about whether or not Al Green was just a one song pony. Have been considering buying bikes so that mrs hhn and I can do a bike thang at weekends. (Health And Safety Executive that she is, mrs hhn is demanding that we wear helmets if we get bikes, which to me rather defeats the whole point of wind in hair freedom jag that cycling can provide in this stuffy windless city. If you see large potato with helmet crammed on equally potato-like head sweating his way across London on bike, you will have successfully done an hhn spot. Prize is hhn tshirt - subject to availability and usual rules and regulations requiring you to promise to read hhn for rest of your life.)
Speaking of Sunday newspapers, is it just me*or have they all become uniformly crap? I read four, no five, Sunday newspapers cover to cover and supplement through supplement yesterday, and I feel actually less informed than I did before I read them. I now know the name of the next best British hope in Formula One, and that's it. Oh, and where to buy wellington boots and what Bob Geldof's kid made of Glastonbury, and the fact that the new Smashing Pumpkins album is not as good as Siamese Dreams, and how much The Spice Girls are getting paid and hate each other, and how much a sea kayak costs, and the fact that Tony Blair got stressed out when he was Prime Minister, and that if I burn tyres in my sitting room I am probably not going to get an invite round to Al Gore's ranch, and the fact that governments remain corrupt and dull and dirty and in power, and that I should be wearing yellow this season...I knew all this already...
...one thing I didn't know until last week was that hedgehogs can climb trees. I can feel a tshirt coming on.
*Copyright The Daily Mail
Elsewhere in England, managed to avoid the Tour De France in Kent yesterday despite being v close - approx 1,000 metres - to it. Instead, slumped on a sofa at my sister's farm and read The Sunday Telegraph and HedgeGrowers Weekly and watched Wimbledon while others were trudging across fields for four seconds of bike-related spectatoring. (Actually, I was stuck trying to sort out my sister's and her daughter's itunes for most of the morning, requiring some serious rnr post lunch.)
What else? Had long - well quite brief as far as I am concerned because she was wrong - debate with mrs househusbandnot the other night about whether or not Al Green was just a one song pony. Have been considering buying bikes so that mrs hhn and I can do a bike thang at weekends. (Health And Safety Executive that she is, mrs hhn is demanding that we wear helmets if we get bikes, which to me rather defeats the whole point of wind in hair freedom jag that cycling can provide in this stuffy windless city. If you see large potato with helmet crammed on equally potato-like head sweating his way across London on bike, you will have successfully done an hhn spot. Prize is hhn tshirt - subject to availability and usual rules and regulations requiring you to promise to read hhn for rest of your life.)
Speaking of Sunday newspapers, is it just me*or have they all become uniformly crap? I read four, no five, Sunday newspapers cover to cover and supplement through supplement yesterday, and I feel actually less informed than I did before I read them. I now know the name of the next best British hope in Formula One, and that's it. Oh, and where to buy wellington boots and what Bob Geldof's kid made of Glastonbury, and the fact that the new Smashing Pumpkins album is not as good as Siamese Dreams, and how much The Spice Girls are getting paid and hate each other, and how much a sea kayak costs, and the fact that Tony Blair got stressed out when he was Prime Minister, and that if I burn tyres in my sitting room I am probably not going to get an invite round to Al Gore's ranch, and the fact that governments remain corrupt and dull and dirty and in power, and that I should be wearing yellow this season...I knew all this already...
...one thing I didn't know until last week was that hedgehogs can climb trees. I can feel a tshirt coming on.
*Copyright The Daily Mail
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