Weeknotes 092: Can you put that in my bum
David Allen Green argues the merits of one sentence paragraphs for clarity of writing and reading.
What are weeknotes, if not a chance to experiment with writing styles?
In preparation for the climate-induced hottest day on UK record, Treacle had her hair judiciously cut, leaving her looking not unlike a toilet brush.
I’d fled to work to hide in an air-conditioned room when The Chef shared a picture of Piglet ensconsed in a hole she’d dug on the beach.
I think Piglet had the better plan.
She thought so too, declaring, “I live here now.”
I came home to Piglet and the neighbours playing in a cool, shady paddling pool.
Two mixing bowls and a handful of fallen apples surpassed any designed pool or bath toy for entertainment.
While they were all distracted, I fitted the fairy door to the tree.
When The Chef saw the door, 10% (at least) of her brain dismissed the obvious reasons and held on to a belief in magic.
Piglet showed Ivy the door and left treats out for the fairies to welcome them to their new home.
Ivy is either an imaginary friend or a second personality—we’re not sure which yet and neither is Piglet.
We’re more sure what this cloud looks like.
Golden flames of dragons fire.
The heat on Tuesday meant we couldn’t eat anything heavier than a salad and the explanation for general skinniness of Spaniards became apparent.
I received the sweetest reward for a day at work when, tucking in for the night, Piglet said, “I’ve missed you daddy. One more cuddle.”
That was on top of the enjoyment I (and I hope we) get from chatting without artifice during bedtime.
Absent distractions or the need to tease out conversation, those few minutes before bed are nothing like our typical adult–toddler relationship.
Sitting out and enjoying the swifts control the mosquito population, I realised I mark their arrival, but not their departure.
Firsts are more noticeable than lasts, and that made me feel sad for the things we’ll notice about Piglet and each other only in retrospect.
Speaking of swifts, The Swallows Depart by Annie Ovenden is unspeakably beautiful.
It’s out of our price range1 and too recent to have cheaper prints as far as I can find.
Also beautiful, but cheaper to appreciate as part of a streaming subscription, is this album by Lianne La Havas.
At work, I’m getting myself stressed about purchase orders; I just want to pay people work done, but I’m getting all the forms wrong and it’s escalating up and I have to keep apologising and explaining the same things to the next person up the chain.
And I still haven’t paid for the work.
More happily I experienced my first proper developer morning with tagged commits and pull requests and backlog clean up and a retro and a new sprint plan and it all felt real.
The annual Cricket Boys Away Day arrived with the usual train cancellations and rain.
Like last year, the indie disco was more popular than the cricket and the interstitial and interwoven catch-up chats superseded that.
The National Football Museum is smaller than you’d think, yet still has room for an An Evening with Niall Quinn brochure.
After 3 years of ducking and dodging, my parents caught Covid.
More narked about losing a babysitting slot than any discomfort from Covid.
Without the expected babysitters, Piglet instead went to a 40th birthday party where she was charm personified and even managed to keep up on an 8000 step walk, which is a decent showing on 3-year-old legs.
Reunited on Sunday, we fit in morning bouncing before heading to the Baltic to very determinedly buy a Moomin purse.
I don’t know either.
An unexpected visit from the Telford branch of the family granted Piglet one last chance to swagger and primp in a happy week.
This was a very odd writing experience and I’m glad I’m not a lawyer.
Unless I’ve an especially generous reader wanting to mark my upcoming milestone birthday…↩︎