blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
[personal profile] blamebrampton
And after all that, poor old Cadel did not win the Tour. Sigh.

Before I go to sleep, I am reading today's really, really enjoyable entry in the AS/S fest. Two-thirds of the way in and having a very good time, even if the author infers P.G. Wodehouse was a 19th century writer (young people liking PGW is a good enough thing for me to overlook a few decades between friends). But he or she has one spelling quirk that makes me a little mad.

A pouf is an overstuffed footstool (also spelled pouffe).

A poof is a boy who prefers the shagging of other boys.

Maybe there's a mnemonic there ...

A pouf is where u put your tired and weary feet.
A poof is o my god at the size of your man meat.

I didn't say it would be a good mnemonic. Just thank goodness that's an end to the cycling and tennis for the year, I can get some sleep now. Stupid time zone. I should be much smarter for the rest of the year ;-) Well, except on post-Grand Prix Mondays. Back to the final third, which I imagine will be as good as the first two, spelling aside.

Date: 2008-07-26 10:42 pm (UTC)
ext_14590: (Default)
From: [identity profile] meredyth-13.livejournal.com
We record the GP and watch it the following night - but woe to the media who sneak results in (especially radio) without any kind of lead in, after a whole day of trying to stay ignorant.

Hmmm, I will have to go look - I need fun fic, and can overlook that all her gay guys are overstuffed and like having feet put on them. Hey, for all I know it could just be her way of indicating they're a bit kinky.

The poof went Poof! in a puff of smoke when his pouf exploded beneath his feet.

I am suffering from an unusually late night too - old Spooks eps, too much pasta, introducing my friend Cherry to playing bass on Rockband, a late night attempt at making chocolate self saucing pudding from scratch (I used a recipe I had in my book for years - it turned out pretty well, but I should have thought to go find yours ... - you did include chocolate self-saucing pudding, right? That wasn't just my imagination? *headdesk*), and more Spooks, left me awake at 1.30am wondering why my bed just wasn't making me sleepy.

Man it's hard to type when a large Bengal cat is trying to pummel your tummy bulge into submission where the rolls of fat rise up above the laptop keyboard.

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