Random thoughts, ideas and stories from the bizzare mind of EOG.
Random thoughts, ideas and stories from the bizzare mind of EOG.
I'm always open to comments on these musings. Feel free to e-mail me or tweet me.
A few pages are still avaliable from my previous, now defunct, blog; E Double-D.
Just click on the picture below
Yes, you have guessed it. This page isn't yet finished - but you can still read it all so thats OK.
Yesterday, I reached the milestone of 500 tweets. In my bordem I decided to look back at these 500 and see what I think of them now.
This is quite long, so has got a page all to itself.
Earlier, I was asked on twitter by @guitaristsrock to write an essay about trains. So here you go Nick, but be aware that I got bored of the idea quite quickly...
Trains are big things (unless they are small) that pull loads (unless they are pushing). They run on metal rails called tracks which collectively make a railway.
Britian was the birthplace of the railway, but they have now spread all over the world - though each contry has it's own idea.
Here is a picture of a London Underground A60 Train in the scrap yard:
Here is a picture of a model of a Great Western Pannier Tank with a face:
Well, that went well. 100%!
Last night, I couldn't sleep. So I wrote a little story. Here you go:
Sam was an milkman, with a lady known as Sue. No. No, no. That was Ernie. Let's start again.
Sam was a postman, with a cat known as Jess. No! That was Pat.
Sam was a fireman, with an engine bright and clean. Hmm. Well that was a Sam, but not Sam Tripp.
Sam Tripp was an old man. Everyday he would walk down the hill to an old abandoned railway station, sit cross-legged on the rotting platform for an hour with his eyes shut, imagining steam. Then he would get up, walk back up the hill to his house and reheat some baked beans. He would sit at the table, picking at them, eating very little and getting just as many in his bushy grey beard. Then he would get up and go to bed exactly as he was.
The next afternoon, he would resurface from his house in the same clothes as yesterday and as he had slept in, the beans also still in his beard. He would walk down the hill to the old station and sit for an hour, go home, pick at beans then go to bed.
This carried on for a fortnight.
One day, his cat died. The cat had bean living off beans for years. Sam buried Claude (for that was the cats name) on the trackbed at his station. Sam stayed extra long that day.
The next day, no one saw him. Nor the next. Nor the next.
Fearing the worst, the local constable contacted his next of kin.
Turns out Sam had gone to be a milkman in Wales and met a women called Sue!
Hmmm... Maybe I shouldn't write stories when my mind is that tired!
This page will eventually form my new blog.
Actually, that's all I've got to say at this moment in time!
Farewells!