The Hills Are Alive….

Well maybe not the hills but downstairs and the hall….in fact can the landing be called a hall? The Halls are alive with the sound of ‘The Sound Of Music’! Giggles and FFG are back! Hurray and Hurrah and Hurray! Ihad been enjoying living on my own it must be said, but there are more people to talk to now and I missed their smiles.

I wonder whether it is possible for a person to become too solitary, to be addicted to lonely places. The more I hear about this party that Byron is throwing the less I think I want to go to it. FFG and Giggles who were wanting people to be up and about before Christmas are planning a romantic thingy for New Year now and Musical Plaid will be at the party.

I can’t imagine a worse combination, no FFG and Giggles and very definate Musical Plaid.

Maybe I should just take my warder and walk. I wish the Jellicle was going to be up here.In fact I wish that the Jellicle, Movie-boy, Sweetie, the Naiad, Beth, the Curious Orange, My Favourite Uncle, Rabbit Girl and boyfriend, Mot and Miss UD were all going to be there. A party should be formed of interesting people and no dull ones or at least dull ones who leave early, which never happens at New Year. The more I htink about this party the more I want to steal some champagne and go sit on a hill watching the stars and other people’s fireworks.

Musical Plaid… soul fills with greyness and shudders. I can’t imagine anything worse. At least an earthquake or a bomb would have some passion to it before my life ended.

I apologise for the bitchiness of this entry and if Plaid does indeed read this then feel free to comment, just don’t expect my position to change.

2 thoughts on “The Hills Are Alive….

  1. Anyway, come to the party. There’s multiple rooms in the house, and it should be a good party, even if MS is there.

    Your alternative, by your own admission, is spending the New Year on your own, drinking champagne on your own.

    (As an aside, how does being ripped limb from limb by high explosive have passion to it? Having lumps of meat picked up by a man in rubber gloves and wearing a facemask, put into binliners and carted off for forensic identification, while leaving the soup that used to be you smeared around the rubble, hardly sounds a glamorous way to die. The same applies to being just one of 50,000 people crushed to paste by a falling building in an earthquake zone.)

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