Another tagging thing • 24 April 2008 • The SnowBlog
Another tagging thing
Ok, no more. If I get another I'm not doing it. I have work to do!
Vanessa, the little minx, sent me this meme.
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.
I'm going to cheat like Rob and not tag anyone else, because Dooce, Seth, Cory, the Guardian CIF and The Bookseller probably won't bite. But here we go: Stupid asking a publisher to pick up the nearest book as it's almost bound to be one of their own. I have at hand The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow by Jerome K Jerome. Rather suitably, it's in a chapter called On Babies.
Just when you have concocted an absurdly implausible tale about a man outside, the door opens, and a tall, severe-looking woman enters, carrying what at first sight appears to be a particularly skinny bolster, with the feathers all at one end. Instinct, however, tells you that this is the baby, and you rise with a miserable attempt at appearing eager. When the first gush of feminine enthusiasm with which the object in question is received has died out, and the number of ladies talking at once has been reduced to the ordinary four or five, the circle of fluttering petticoats divides, and room is made for you to step forward.
Emma
Ok, no more. If I get another I'm not doing it. I have work to do!
Vanessa, the little minx, sent me this meme.
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.
I'm going to cheat like Rob and not tag anyone else, because Dooce, Seth, Cory, the Guardian CIF and The Bookseller probably won't bite. But here we go: Stupid asking a publisher to pick up the nearest book as it's almost bound to be one of their own. I have at hand The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow by Jerome K Jerome. Rather suitably, it's in a chapter called On Babies.
Just when you have concocted an absurdly implausible tale about a man outside, the door opens, and a tall, severe-looking woman enters, carrying what at first sight appears to be a particularly skinny bolster, with the feathers all at one end. Instinct, however, tells you that this is the baby, and you rise with a miserable attempt at appearing eager. When the first gush of feminine enthusiasm with which the object in question is received has died out, and the number of ladies talking at once has been reduced to the ordinary four or five, the circle of fluttering petticoats divides, and room is made for you to step forward.