The day of the poetry presentation

I'm sitting here, listening to Joni Mitchell and looking out of the window. It's so windy today I'm suprised the the roof tiles are intact and that I can't see whole herds of cows being blown down the road. There's something about Joni which makes weather like this seem so much more....poetic? It makes me feel a little like I'm on 'One Tree Hill' or 'Dawsons Creek' or something similiar. Something angsty...and arty.
As for the wind, I used the term 'blowing a hoolie' the other day and wondered where it came from. So, according to 'secretocean.eu' it refers to -'The Hooley River is located in India and runs through Calcutta. "It's blowing a HOOLEY", comes from when steamship captains were unable to sail up the river.' So there you have it, do you feel edumacated?

Today was our poetry presentation. I think it went well. No one fainted, puked or had any lingering silences which is the best we can hope for at this stage.

Professor Barnabus von Chocolate greeted me with a mixed reaction today, you could tell he wanted to growl but decided otherwise. I am trying a new tactic now. I am making as much noise as possible on entering the house in order to give him time to prepare himself emotionally, mentally and physically (i.e cover up his naughty bits). He only half raised his heckles and was soon subdued with a piece of cheddar. I didn't take a picture of him, I'll go take one now...

I'll get one later. He's not playing ball...

In fact, here's an old one to keep you going:

*note the 'butter wouldn't melt' expression


Here's another piece of my creative writing (I can't get rid of those light blue bits):

St Tropez

He smiles into the phone, committing his attention fully to the entity on the other end of the line. With his head occupied elsewhere, his deserted body wanders aimlessly. Perhaps tracing the ghostly, elliptical orbits of the satellites to which he is intravenously connected.

He looks a little too brown for this time of year. His black hair could point to exotic blood but I remain unconvinced. The tan doesn't do much to stem the goosepimples, even with his arms clamped to his sides like that. Of course, this chilly, overcast day is perfect t-shirt weather.

He stops, goodbye's and reluctantly severs the lifeline. Luckily for him only temporarily, as within a few seconds the phone trills out again, singing for attention. He answers, it's Mae West. The circles start again.