Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Yesterday the batteries in my watch stopped.  Dead.  Kaput. I feel silly for wearing it still because it does nothing except tell me that the time is 2 o’clock, and I can’t even be sure if that’s 2 o’clock in the morning or 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

Well, take it off!
I can’t.
For goodness sake, why not?
Because I’ll feel naked without it. Naked!

And I will, truly.  I feel naked if I don’t have my rings on, or I run out of concealer.  Naked is good, just not when it comes to particular things.  Still, I may as well be naked the amount of times I’ve looked at my watch today and gone d’oh!

Ah, at least Christmas is but days away and I have a funny feeling that one of the presents under the tree is a Fossil of some variety. 

*breathes a sigh of relief*

And that’s all I have to say. 

I was going to write about the presents I finally made for my nephews as a thank you for being such superb pageboys.  I was also going to mention that chap who was charged this evening with the murders of the five women in Gip, and how uncanny it had been reading about the case in such obscure places as the Los Angeles Times and the New Zealand Herald.  The area the man lives is the catchment area of both the school where I worked before moving to The Shire and the school where I spent two years studying for my A’Levels.  I was going to write about how it’s just really odd to see it on the international news. There’s even a whole page devoted to it over at Then I was going to write about the weird and wonderful way my brain told me something earlier.  And how tomorrow we shall be fighting the crowds of people in Tesco.  How I can’t stop buying decorations for my tree.  How much Tabatha-Cat hates the new shaggy rug in my lounge.

But I shan’t write about any of that.

*runs off to play*

please God bless my dead batteries and keep them safe in battery heaven xxx Elsabeth



I was born in Gip and raised in a village just a couple of miles away.  I worked in various shops/factories in Gip and went to Sixth Form there.  I saw bands, drank cider and kissed in cemeteries in Gip.  I’ve never had a problem walking through Gip at night.  I’ve frozen my arse off on the Town Hall steps [where all the cool kids hung out … do they still?] and been ‘shroom gathering in leafy parks.  I’ve chatted boys up at the Crown Pools and stalked John Wark in McDonalds. 

I like Gip.  I love Gip.  Gip would be the town I would love to live in, again.  Work in, again.  Or maybe Norwich.  Given the choice that would actually be a toughie.  But, for this entry’s sake, let’s say Gip is the place I feel most at home in, the place I could lay my weary head. 

Gip is really famous for nothing.  Oh, Thomas Wolsey was born in Gip, and Nik Kershaw went to school there.  John Peel, Griff Rhys-Jones and Val Lehman all have connections with Gip [Val Lehman lived two doors away from a friend of mine and we used to stare out of the window for hours [minutes] waiting for her to come home – we were huge Prisoner: Cell Block H fans]. 

Today Gip is headline news. 

National headline news. 


It’s the sort of thing that only happens up north.  Or in London.  Or maybe Birmingham.  It doesn’t happen in Gip.  Gip is refined and … nice.  Quiet and gentle. 

Surely nobody in Gip could be a serial killer? 

Ack, I’m better off living here where the children have webbed feet and they can’t pronounce their t’s. 

please God bless the girls of Gip and keep them safe xxx Elsabeth