Worlds Weirdest Coincidence

So here's how it works. I live with my parents. It's a fairly big house, three bedrooms, three bathrooms (Originally two and one, but my Dad is addicted to extensions) and as of recent events, my thirty-something brother is living with us. This is all well and good, seeing as I never really grew up with my brother and I really enjoy being with him, but there's a catch.

There's always a catch.


Two days a week, normally Friday and Saturday, the kids come.


There's two of them, Finley: Born 2003, now seven years old, a four-eyed bookworm who during his first year or two everyone thought was a clone of me at that age, and Lola: Born 2007, now four, the noisiest little girl you'll ever meet with the funniest array of faces you'll ever see.

Now my book collection, in it's current state, is in three sections:
1. The books I don't want any-more and am selling to make space for new books.
2. The overflow of books (Mainly ones I haven't read for years) outside my room on the landing.
3. My actual bookshelf, which I'm in the process of cleaning and re-arranging.
I, like most people, happen to have a couple of editions of the Guinness Book of World Records, bought for me as desperate attempts at Christmas presents by distant relatives, that I've flicked through, laughed at, and then condemned to the shelf.

So when I woke up this morning to find the kids clawing through my overflow of books, I didn't mind them sitting there and pawing through the World Records books, except for the fact that for the rest of the morning, all I could hear was the Lords name in vain as they sighted the extremes of life itself.

But it's not what they saw, or the pictures in the book that struck me, it's something that took me a few minutes to realise. I've only got two editions of the record books, one from 2003, and one from 2007. One from the year Finley was born, which he was reading, and one from the year Lola was born, which she was reading.

And that was really weird.

Try as I might to wax lyrical about some far-out metaphor completely made up to tie this all together, I really can't. I just thought it was really quite peculiar.

-Lewis

The Wombles of Wimbledon Common Are We

So I said to a few people (Enough to start a military coup if it got out of hand. Maybe.) that when my blog got to a thousand views I would post something about my book. A book, may I add, that is coming along slower than a snail that's been caught in traffic due to an untimely road-traffic-accident involving a large heavy, hard to move object, but it is somewhat moving.


So, not wanting to cause any kind of coup d'etat, I shall indulge you.


Having been in this glorious country (England) for quite a while now, and having my (To say the least) interesting hobby of people watching, you seem to notice that the people of this nation are somewhat - insane.

Whether its dressing up as batman and chaining themselves to the Queens residence, or dressing up in a pink tutu and nothing else, despite being a 40 year old man, the British public have never ceased to amaze in everything that is weird, mad, bad, and completely ludicrous.

And for what reason? Because life's too boring. Douglas Adams did it best when he chronicled an Englishman going into space in his night-clothes, and queuing and complaining at every given obstacle, because that's what Englishmen do. They get sick at life, but they carry on.

And so, the aptly named 'Sick.' chronicles the people of England, in a variety of short stories. The accidents, the inconveniences, the inevitabilities, and the humour behind it all, that stops us from dying off and/or topping ourselves.

This all came to mind, in a small example, as I was sent an article, aptly entitled 'Glastonbury boss Michael Eavis regrets Wombles booking'. If you don't find that funny enough as it is, or don't know what Glastonbury is or what the Wombles are, I suggest you click here to read the article.

'Sick' should be available around October time, with free yet awful postal services and the neat-o price of £7.00 sterling ($11.60).


-Lewis

How to Lose Friends (And Gain Better Ones)

Granted, I've never been exceptional at making friends.

Although I'm quite good at losing them.

And so, going into my teens with a great want for company and people to talk to, I rushed to what seemed like the most obvious option - Facebook. Looking back, Facebook is now less of a friend-making facility, but more of a good way to communicate with friends you already have, as well as being a socially acceptable addiction.

But it wasn't really enough.

I have my friends, and they're all awesome and good for me in their different special ways, whether it's providing hugs and sympathy when I'm being pathetic, or providing fellowship and arguments when I'm drunk, but I'm guilty of wanting different people. There was a type missing.

I read a lot of books, and learn lots of clever stuff from the internet, stuff that I sometimes feel like I have to pack up all the smart stuff in a little mental box and keep it until I get to snooty English discussions at University.

Then I blogged.


And although it's not as if I was instantaneously surrounded by part-time librarians, I now know more people, interesting people, and to put it in context, I'm going to have tea and scones with the rather beautiful blogger Tegan on Toast and her boyfriend tomorrow.

How did I get this subject? Why am I posting twice in one day?!
In short, I was shown this video by my bi-curious-ginger-friend, and although you might not make the connection, it made me think of you guys.


(And before sexually confused people ask, yes, I'm bisexual, and yes, those dudes are attractive.)


Thanks Everyone!
-Lewis

Notes to Self (Should be actually noted and followed)

Today's post is brought to you by my strange aptitude for not being able to follow my own advice.

Some of you might remember that my first post on this collection of rambles and thoughts was a smallish piece from one of my notebooks on me attempting to gain inspiration for writing by going out side (See 'A Reason For Not Leaving the House').

Now today, struck with the good luck (Yet minor inconvenience, my calendar being empty as always) of being free from the bounds of school, I could stay at home and eat and read and generally do whatever I like, which is the ideal way for any teenage nerd to spend his life (And on days like this I really do). But today, I pushed myself to attempt to do something productive.

As you probably know (Seeing as I don't ever shut up about the damn thing) my book is being released in October, and seeing that I have to finish writing it, edit it, make a final edition and get it printed, I have quite a bit of work to get done. So, I thought, in order to get some writing done instead of writing a paragraph and getting distracted by fore-mentioned and dreaded funny cat videos I ventured forth from the house, portfolio folder in hand to venture off somewhere silent to get some writing done.

Oh, foolish young Lewis. You've made this mistake before lad.


I did consider going to the library, a place sort of intended to be, silent, easy to work in, full of good literature, and of course away from the internet, but I, being the lazy teenager that I am, couldn't be bothered to walk into town, and so made my way to a field.

Why?! What? Are you mental?!


And so I sat there, trying (And ultimately failing) to write, and in all of a couple minutes, I found myself covered in bugs, squinting massively at the white paper, and beginning to break out in a sweat under the sun.

So I went home.

And wrote this.

Don't be surprised if this book is late in coming.

- Lewis