6/8 Time Signature Is The Happiest Time Signature

I do so love a challenge. And the thing I love most about a challenge is when it's stupendously easy. So, for example, I challenged myself to write a 50,000 word novel in a month, but because I'm a particularly canny operator, I wrote a microscopic proviso into the dot above the i in "write" which said I would get to, oh, say, the 20th, and have only have got a fifth of the way through, and that would also count as a success. And you will never guess how far I've got! No, go on, guess! That's right. 300 words.

I do, of course, kid. 10,000 words of pure, solid, gold-effect Elizabeth Duke jewellery. Send it to reallywe'lldefinitelysendyoumoneyifyousendusyourvaluables

andnoofcoursewe'renotlaughingupoursleeve.com and you'd get paper money! Literal worthless paper money.

Digressing, as per usual... I have been tagged by the peerless I Should Be Working and politely asked to come up with a song that makes me smile, and then pass the tag on to some other blogging wonderfuls who also make me smile, and ask them to carry it on. I was 20% through the mind-sentence "Ooh, crikey. That might be quite difficult..." before I had come up with my answer. So in fact the mind-sentence went "Ooh, crik...oh yeah, Grandaddy!"

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why this song makes me smile more than any other. I'm not an enormous Grandaddy fan, just because I don't know many of their songs. The pleasure is not related to 28 Days Later, or Screenwipe; it's not connected to any particular memory. In fact, I can't even remember when I heard this song first, but it was inevitably all Nic's fault, as most of my musical heritage is. In a way, I don't want to examine it too closely in case I overthink it. But the instant feeling of soaring joy I feel whenever it pops its little head onto my iPod is...well, it's an instant feeling of soaring joy. I have to ration it. I never play it intentionally, because I have a silly notion that I will use up its power, and I love being surprised by it in mundane situations. I'm struggling to think of anything else that can give that you that visceral jolt, which makes you stop in your tracks and close your eyes and raise your face to the skies and just beam.

Of course, those actions made in public make me look like an actual lunatic, which all helps, you know.

Now for the second, more arduous part of the challenge. I fear I may have to break the rules somewhat here, as no other blogs really make me smile to the extent that the ones I'm about to mention do, and I can't tag them, really, for various reasons. Honorable non-mention to the blog I can't mention because I said I wouldn't. But the two people I want to point to are first, my tagger, I Should Be Working. (Second link alert!) The best-written and most life-affirming blog you'll ever want to read, her wry, hilarious observations and general intelligent insight into the world make me smile every time, and she's a continual inspiration. She's already done this though, so can't tag her. Gah!

Second: the stupendously talented Ms Laura Barnard, who if she wrote a blog would write a blog of rapier wit and faultless charm. But instead she has the gaul and audacity to be a bloody fabulous artist, and her blog is a treasure trove of her work, every bit of which is infused with rapier wit and faultless charm. And she does brilliant monsters as well. Lau, I know your blog is for your proper work etc, but if you want to play and pick a song and some people you like reading, please do so in the comments, my brutha!

Sorry I broke the chain, ISBW. I used to throw away chain letters as well. God knows how I have any loved ones left who haven't died in mysterious and gruesome circumstances.

Anyhow, gush gush gush! There's a lot of love in the room. I'm going to go away and get really tetchy about something, and blast the love out with my next post. Ooh, is Children In Need still on? Perfect...

No, But, Seriously

Now, I don't mean to scare you, my precious babies, but I have a fact for you. Death comes to us all. Yes, even you. Not you though, you have hitherto undiscovered immortality, which you will only discover when you slowly realise that everyone around you is withering away while you stay fresh and youthful and beautiful, and that moment of realisation will crash into your brain and mash it all up like a freight train through an inexplicable sack of corned beef, and you will spend the rest of eternity rocking back and forth in a chair in the corner of an empty room in a dark, cobweb-filled mansion that no mortal will ever set foot in.

Yeah, sorry to break that to you like this, but hey, better here than on Twitter, right?

Anyhow, one of the more recent people to feel the sarcastic raise of Death's icy eyebrow is my lovely Nana. So here I sit, alone at midnight in the ridiculously opulent bar of the Cork International Airport Hotel, rather guiltily glugging the most expensive pint of Heineken I've ever bought as fast as I can so the poor bar staff can go home, and while I should be chucking another few hundred words gloomily onto the pile of my very-behind-schedule NaNoWriMo novel, I felt I'd better write something down about her.

Memories of Nana no 1: Laugh

Nana was of good solid Berkshire stock, which makes her sound a little like cattle, but I'm sure she'd forgive me. I didn't actually know her that well. She moved to Ireland when I was about 9, and she and my father had a mother/son relationship which was never really explained to me, my father being of the "hush, hush, bottle it up and brazen it out" school of thought, but I think centred around being as far away from each other as humanly possible without it seeming actually rude. So what few memories I have of her are mostly vague and unfocused, but her broad Berkshire accent and more acutely her laugh - throaty, huge, but with a squeaky Muttley quality, and unfurled at the slightest provocation - burn through above all else. She found a great deal of life funny, and that, I think, is something we should all heartily approve of.

Memories of Nana no 2: Puppies

Shortly after she moved to Ireland, we went to visit. For some reason, I had to fly across on my own, which was just the most exciting thing possible as I was an Unaccompanied Minor with a big pass around my neck declaring it, and a stewardess had to accompany me everywhere I went, even if I wanted to go and buy sweeties, which I could because I had my own money and she really couldn't have given less of a fuck what I did with it! Hoorah! While we were staying with Nana, who lived in a very beautiful and rural corner of south-west Ireland, we woke up one morning to hear the most pitiful cries from her garden. Investigating, we found under a bush, shivering, sopping wet and terrified, a tiny little puppy. It was quite the most adorable thing I'd ever seen. Further investigations yielded a few more puppies dotted around, and even further human-based investigations led to a nearby farm, and a mysteriously missing litter of newborn puppies. We reunited the little guys with their mum, congratulated them on their adventurous spirit, and I was privy to the word "bitch" in its correct context for the first time. Nana was a rock throughout all this, involving me every step of the way, and I felt like a proper grown-up, even though I was a shivering, terrified pup myself.

Memories of Nana no 3: Boyfriend

Nana was quite the most ferociously independent and strong-willed woman you would ever care to meet. Divorced from my grandad way before I was around, she moved to Ireland by herself and never needed anybody else around her (as far as I know. I like to think she had her toyboys dotted about the Irish glens, or fens, or whatever they have round here. Sorry, Ireland, I don't know you that well either) She built, virtually by herself, her own home, living in a caravan for years during its construction, all well after she was 50. But she would, without fail, after I reached about 15, whenever I spoke to her briefly at Christmas, ask me if I had a boyfriend. No-one else in the family wanted to know about this side of me. My dad, I suppose understandably, refuses still to acknowledge any partner's existence without major prodding. The massive swell of pride when I was able to tell her, finally, after years of this question, that yes, I DID have a boyfriend, and her joyous reaction, was something I retain to this day.

There's loads more coming back to me now; stuff about her house, and her scent, and the things she said, and the last time I saw her; how glad I am that she met Mr JRME, and that I phoned my uncle who I haven't spoken to in 12 years to pass a message on to her before she died. And how much it was a horrible, long and degrading way to go, and how much she must have hated every second of being trapped in a hospital bed. And how glad I am that she's free, but how sad I am that she's gone. Good on you, Nana. I'm sorry we didn't know each other better. And I really hope you don't mind I've spewed all this onto a blog.

Cheers for bearing with me, guys...back to normal business next time. And for those keeping count, yes, it's now 00:42, but the bar staff threw me out ages ago, so you can stop your fretting. They're fine.