People can't understand it.
I had a dream about the Queen last night. She was really upset, begging me to be her friend. She said she had none and that Tony Blair had betrayed her trust. Furthermore, she claimed he hated her. She said she was going to kill him.
"There are guns in the palace," she said.
Poor woman. All that money and still she's as miserable as sin. And she is, dear reader. How often do you see her smile? And her blank, unexpressive face is hardly that. She looks like she's just been told to eat a dog shit.
You can be rich in paradise.
Money can't and won't bring us happiness. A cliché, I know, but the best things in life are free. Shopping for a designer ball gown is all well and good, but there's no joy to be had with no friends at the ball. Eating at a fancy restaurant might well be fabulous, but eating chateaubriand at a table for one is hell on a plate.
Happiness is just a state of mind, but a state only achieved with the help of friends. Perhaps that's why I'm so obsessed with Big Brother. They become my friends for the Summer.
I'm zipping up my boots, my little maid, going back to my roots, my Fib Sunday roots.
If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, hen, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. If Fibs don't interest you, check out this nice painting.
1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...
A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:
Math plus poetry yields the Fib.
Last week, Ken Monteith left us with Up here for thinking; down there for dancing. My dancin' 'n' boozin' response:
I look to the clouds
Think how great hell is for dancing