I like when I’m driving home in the dark and music comes on that makes it feel like it’s a noir flick. Like tonight. Sadly, the effect was short-lived- were I only granted special privilege to issue tickets to those that stop dead at roundabouts. On the noir note, watched The Third Man this past week, and was quite captivated by the marvelous and atypical zither score. Effectively eerie at times.
Got a nifty workbench for use with tools of the heftier variety (took a 3D design class years ago that took place in a shop filled with power tools and promptly fell for the jigsaw) that I intend to put together shortly.
Cranwinkle. Collecting Ediths, it’s a thing.
Roald Dahl has been on my radar as of late- the debut of a marvelous clothing collection inspired by his books and characters, the BFG movie we all had to watch because of Shane’s British childhood, and a viewing of The Witches last month (yay, Atkinson). Dahl had such fun with words- telly-telly bunkum box, radio squeaker, and hippodumplings, for three. I was busy Googling a comprehensive list of all the ones he’s ever mashly-mished, when wonderment happened: can I pop other seeds just like popcorn? Yes, apparently, but I’ll be sticking with the corn it looks like.
We understand with time and hindsight I’m always told, but that’s not applied to anything I’ve experienced in life really. I’ve been asking where did I go wrong- a quantity of one, a mere one, to choose and value me over any other, to be my family. All these years, gone, with no memories, nothing built, a clean heart in wait of another clean heart.