Seachain an duine a bhíonn ina thost

I did a stint on the minibuses last night. Today I am very tired. I'm staring at my screen but not really managing to do anything about the words written on it. I've just taken a delivery of a popcorn machine and a candyfloss machine with a jaunty pink raffia umbrella but I can't even muster up the energy to tidy it away somewhere so it's just sitting in a trolley in my waiting room. I am such a wimp.

I feel weird: Serendipity is ready to go. I should be running around like a headless chicken, crying, stressing, shutting my door. But I'm not. I'm sitting here with not a lot to do. My Protestant Work Ethic is making me feel guilty, as though I'm not doing my job properly. It's unnerving.

Sam is a corporate whore. Watch out for his blog on the merits of Toshiba laptops any day now (they're sending him one for a week so he can blog about it). This is the problem with having an ego as large as his: once someone feeds it all morals go out the window.

Look at the magical, mythical tree thing:



It's the most famous thing that's happened in Bangor for ages, probably even out-performing Prince Charles. Which is nice, because we like the Botanical Gardens, so the more interest people show in them the better. Radio 2, Radio Wales, the Guardian, the Daily Mail, the Daily Star ... the meeja have been queuing up to catch a glimpse at our SuperTree. Just a shame we've missed the chance to make Treborth Tequila.

Serendipity is approaching fast and I am having to tell lots of people they can't have stalls. It gets very frustrating how much people demand of you and how often they change their minds. The space we have to work with is definitely not big enough so I can't keep everyone happy and I've had to be horrible and turn away charities because we need the income from commercial stall-holders. But I think the worst thing is that all the preparation I put in doesn't really make a difference to whether the event itself is good or bad; that's down to the stall-holders and the effort they put in. All I'm doing is making their lives slightly easier in the run-up to the event.

In other news, I got my hair cut the other day. I had a good three inches taken off, and fixed the horrendous inch-long roots I had grown, but hardly anyone has noticed. I don't know why I bother.

You probably won't be able to read this properly here but look what I found in the staffroom in the school we were staying in during the Triennial:



It's this excellent spelling guide of words teachers might like to use when writing reports. It includes such gems as 'obnoxious', 'jeapordise', 'calamity', 'fiasco' and 'impertinent'. It's like playing with those poetry fridge magnets: I have an urge to cut them all out and write reports using only those words.