Did it. Dig it.

So, this is that cup of tea I was telling you about.

It was only 4:30pm, bitch arse cold, pitch black and a week before Christmas when we emerged from St. John's Wood station in London to cross Abbey Road in tragic tourist fashion.

Although this excursion was my idea, I admit that I still felt kinda awkward heading for our cultural mecca.
Most likely because I'm largely unfamiliar with the sensations and basic procedures associated with reverence.

We stopped in the Beatles cafe/gift shop at the station, to ask final directions and to pay ridiculous prices for Beatles merchandise as only the devout know how.

• $18 for pink Beatles shoelaces for my niece's Converse All-Stars? No worries at all.
• $15 for Yellow Submarine playing cards? Yes Sir!
• $25 for a black Abbey Road beanie? Two. Naturally.
  
• $7 for pens which either have The Beatles themselves, sliding around the crossing or a yellow submarine going by? Yup. I think I bought 3 of each. But only because I was exercising terrific self control and felt pressed for time.
  
• $7 for what looked pretty much exactly like a bucket of take away black tea, so hot and so strong that it made my heart leap for joy and would prompt this blog all these months later? Of course.
  

So, being only two blocks away, my tea was still almost full and piping hot when we arrived at the crossing.
And that's important.
It added to my over all enjoyment of this quasi religious experience, as a good drink always will.

I'm still shocked at how excited I was when we first spotted it.

I crossed, marched straight up to the 24 hour web cam and waved furiously at anyone who happened to be watching. Let's hope there weren't too many. I hope they're OK.

Walking across, perhaps it was my excellent cup of tea, perhaps it was purposefully achieving a nonsensical goal, maybe it was that little bit of creative magic that hangs in the air there, but I simply could not wipe the grin off my own face.
I don't know why I tried, but I did.
I'm like that.

Did it. Dig it.

The screen is black, but the clip is ready to go.




Oh, and in case you'd like to sing along...

DIG A PONY (THE BEATLES- LET IT BE)


I hi hi hi hi hi hi, dig a pony
Well you can celebrate anything you want
Yes, you can celebrate anything you want
Ooh

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, do a roadhog
Well you can penetrate any place you go
Yes, you can penetrate any place you go

I told you so
All I want is you
Everything has got to be
just like you want it to
Because

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, pick a moondog
Well you can radiate everything you are
Yes, you can radiate everything you are
Ooh

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, roll a stoney
Well you can imitate everyone you know
Yes, you can imitate everyone you know

I told you so
All I want is you
Everything has got to be
just like you want it to
Because

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, feel the wind blow
Well you can indicate everything you see
Yes, you can indicate everything you see
Ooh

I hi hi hi hi hi hi, cold and lonely
Well you can syndicate any boat you row
Yes, you can syndicate any boat you row

I told you so
All I want is you
Everything has got to be
just like you want it to
Because

Yes, I said stigmata.

I've long expected a bolt of lightning or a trio of sixes, so no-one was more surprised than me when a couple of crucifixion style nail holes casually appeared on my wrists this morning.

And yet it happened.
A miracle!

I went to bed a self-defined atheist, yet awoke with a heavy burden indeed.

To be attractive to Christians is surely my worst nightmare.
In fact, I could never have imagined such perversity or evil.

We always think it'll happen to someone else, don't we?

Pretty soon, all manner of desperate weirdos will be arriving by the bus load, trying to worship me, stealing leaves from my garden and queuing for hours to purchase exquisitely over priced and cheesy souvenirs.

I like the souvenirs bit.

So, before my lifestyle is overcome with the kind of people I generally go out of my way to avoid, I'm going to have to have a little word with Francine, my Acupuncturist.

Maybe I'll even vent my spleen.

Insecure fuzzy helpers

Hands up who didn't think this was going to turn into Auntie Simone's cats'n'quilts corner?

We haven't met then, have we?

I spent Saturday morning pinning 200 safety pins into this thing.
I spent Sunday machine quilting.
ALL Sunday.
I finished just in time to watch the Souths game.
Thank God I did too, because missing that gem would have be awful. But I'm not ready to talk about that.

Furthering my theory of our 2 older cats Alice, and now also Phoebe, reading my blog and becoming insecure due to the praise I recently lavished upon Poppy, I was treated to some world-class fuzzy assistance with the quilting.

Oh joy.

As you can see, Phoebe came in from the rain and parked her soggy wet arse all over Ranga's quilt while my back was turned.
Surely she's worth every one of the $10 we paid for her. ;O)
I'm going to be kind hearted and give her B of the D and assume she believed that in some small way that she was contributing.
The fact is, she was in a large way, thwarting my efforts completely.

Soon after Idiot Number One was dispatched, Idiot Number Two arrived, hot on her heels.
Alice being the backwards cat that she is, helped me by burrowing underneath the quilt (creating and unsightly lump) and swatting aggressively at my hands at even imperceptible movements.

So, after kisses and hugs had been exchanged, I closed the door on their attempts to impress and assist me for the rest of the afternoon.

Hopefully now that their efforts have been recorded in cyber space, they will read this and then be able to relax, secure in the knowledge that even if their one task is to lie around on the bed being fuzzy, then that's always a big help to me anyway. :O)