April 2005 Archives

"What's Artesian water?" Mr. Teen, green and pale, is home from school, resting at the coach and drinking as much water as he possibly can handle to recover from the seemingly incurable Cambridge stomach bug. Holding his Fuji water bottle up close to his eyes for better inspection, he's got a question for Super Mum.

Google, define: artesian.

"Water held under pressure in porous rock or soil confined by impermeable geological formations." I read, casually pretending to know these factual things. Mr. Teen is quiet, thinking. A wrinkle slowly grows above his eye brows. He burps.

"I think that's very good" I hastily add, as casually as I possibly can, knowing where this might go as Mr. Teen tends to take a liking to finicky attitudes. "It's like gourmet water!"

Mr. Teen however,  isn't convinced and studies the label again. "I wonder if Sir Orange FlaggyTail is an Artesian cat," I hurry to distract him. Mr. Teen drops the bottle and looks over at Sir Orange, who blinks back at him, confused.

"I'd say he's more of an artistic cat," corrects Mr. Teen.

I found the most delicious Norwegian blog. DietroVetro is such a wonderful read, but I haven't shared it because it's in Norwegian... but this post might speak for itself. I remember seeing that suff every morning in the butcher's window on my way to school. Oh, gross, gross, gross.

At least she didn't eat the eye. Sometimes, being Norwegian really hurts.

My mum misses my blog. Where are your stories? she asks. I've taken a long break and I am not really sure if I want to come back. Perhaps I don't find blogging very social at all, after having had this blog for some years. Somtimes I feel like blogging is like standing on a lonesome cliff at night, calling into the peaceful, quiet darkness while the stars twinkle slowly, the moon drifting coldly. Then, when daylight comes, the echo of your voice comes back at you with a speed faster than sound, knocking the air out of you.

Or, perhaps it is a bit like building a dream house. You furnish it carefully with all your favorite things, but you forget to lock the door when you leave. When you come back, you sense that someone has been there, but you can't quite tell. And you don't know exactly what this means.

Yeah! That's what blogging is like, to me.