Collate, Fold, Staple...

My best friend Nicola has an MA is photocopying! Because of this I have an immense amount of respect for her.

Since the conception of my very own publishing empire two weeks ago, I have almost had several emotional breakdowns, numerous apparently psychosomatic illnesses and symptoms of; and have been cut, stuck and very nearly electrocuted by the most unfriendly of my equipment. If I see another complicated contraption masquerading as a photocopier, it will be the final nail in the coffin of my mental health. My elderly stapler found the volume of paper it has had to bind together all too much and has had to take early retirement, leaving me with no choice but to buy a new one with funds I do not yet have (a whopping £1.73 being all I’ve earned so far!). The printer is spewing green ink, the scanner has had its cable tasted by a mischievous rabbit and if I fall over one more piece of the discarded stationary strewn across the floor, I’ll almost certainly find myself in A&E. And being as stubborn as usual, I will not be deterred. Oh no. I finally got the latest batch of zines folded and stapled today and the previous batch mailed out yesterday. My next zine is in pre-production, research is underway and when these blasted paper cuts heal I will lovingly grip my pen and attempt to bash out the same old rubbish (that everyone would really rather I didn’t.)

On a high note I will stop typing and get back to tidying and humming happily along to The Postal Service. Much in the same was as they say cheese gives you nightmares if you eat it before bed, The Postal Service make you wake up in the middle of the night surrounded by the most wonderful buzzing sound.

Fireworked

I had a good post planned for tonight, but someone appears to have chewed through my scanner cable so my plans have quite literally gone up in smoke.

I’ve come to the rather hasty conclusion that fireworks should be banned. This would prevent them from falling into the hands of juvenile delinquents and most worryingly of all, suburban fathers. These men subsequently turn peaceful neighbourhoods into extremely dangerous areas, often resembling night fall in downtown Basra.

I was sitting peacefully in the darkened conservatory last night, barely half way through chapter one of Jane Eyre, when the world outside the window appeared to end in a blaze of green light emitted by a firework, semi-vertically launched over the hedge. My furry companion, previously grinding his teeth in contentment, leapt to his feet and promptly situated himself behind the sofa, stamping his abnormally large back paws frantically. Feeling slightly unnerved as the fireworks continued to zoom erratically past my window; I was more than once tempted to join him.

Seemingly normal men take leave of their senses come the beginning of November and retreat to their gardens with excitable families, before proceeding to wave around explosives as if they were a twirling baton. Fireworks are just as dangerous in the wrong hands as any other explosive material - its gunpowder not a sherbet dip. How hard is that to comprehend? Does little Bobby have to lose an eye or Grandma suffer second degree burns before anyone will realise that fireworks belong in the hands of the professional, certified pyromaniacs. Those who skilfully put on the end of festival fireworks displays and other such supervised events, not Mr Jones from number six who just accidentally hospitalised three members of his family.