Forum Replies Created
-
Posts
-
@pikey wrote:
You should find a copy a read it, Ms Gooner. If you stick with it, it will cure you of Dan Brown forever.
Ive found a copycat of Mr Brown… he’s called Sam Bourne. The covers of his books even replicate the great Mr Brown, so I had to investigate, and I tell you what, he is pretty good! In my humble opinion anyway. :wink:
o dear… already have!! :oops:
he’s in a cold rainny field watchin footy and im in bed with lappy….
gawd knows how dinner is gonna get done today…. I aint moving!
@*Dawny* wrote:
@sharongooner wrote:
suffering….. oh man I hate hangovers where they make you feeel soooooo tired, and you think you’ve swallowed a skunk.
but I love my new lappy…. layin in bed and on the net…. quality!
Lappy’s rule!!!!
I’d never go back to using a base unit now, ever!!!!
I like I can sit in the garden on the Lappy, in bed when i’m ill, anywhere really, I take it to my MIL’s, We have come down to my mom’s after all this weekend and I’ve brought Lappy with me! :D
Im a bit concerned that I am ever so slightly in love with lappy. I took a lot of persuading to go out and leave it last night!
@pikey wrote:
That was when I saw the Pendulum.
The sphere, hanging from a long wire set into the ceiling of the choir, swayed back and forth with isochronal majesty.
I knew – but anyone could have sensed it in the magic of that serene breathing – that the period was governed by the square root of the length of the wire and by π, that number which, however irrational to sublunar minds, through a higher rationality binds the circumference and diameter of all possible circles. The time it took the sphere to swing from end to end was determined by an arcane conspiracy between the most timeless of measures: the singularity of the point of suspension, the duality of the plane’s dimensions, the triadic beginning of π, the secret quadratic nature of the root, and the unnumbered perfection of the circle itself.Umberto Eco ~ Foucault’s Pendulum
CANT wait for the next instalment, my frown will be permanent!
You are just showing off there arent you….?
this threads going well then….
@matty wrote:
you bought a keyboard for your laptop?
your getting on my nerves now!
I am gonna buy a nice sleeping bag for it though… a nice pink one.
bless lol!
At least your 14 year old likes his coats enough to wash them.
Mine denies all knowledge of even owning a coat!
@chickenman wrote:
Don’t they just burn cars where you live shaz to keep warm ???
They’ve even stopped doing just that, times are hard!
Death is my beat. I make my living from it. I forge my professional relationship on it. I treat it with the passion and precision of an undertaker — somber and sympathetic about it when I’m with the bereaved, a skilled craftsman with it when I’m alone. I’ve always thought the secret to dealing with death was to keep it at arm’s length. That’s the rule. Don’t let it breathe in your face.
But my rule didn’t protect me. When the two detectives came for me and told me about Sean, a cold numbness quickly enveloped me. It was like I was on the other side of the aquarium window. I moved as if underwater — back and forth, back and forth — and looked out at the rest of the world through the glass. From the backseat of their car I could see my eyes in the rearview mirror, flashing each time we passed beneath a streetlight. I recognized the thousand-yard stare I had seen in the eyes of fresh widows I had interviewed over the years.
I knew only one of the two detectives, Harold Wexler. I had met him a few months earlier when I stopped into the Pints Of for a drink with Sean. They worked in CAPS together on the Denver PD. I remembered Sean called him Wex. Cops always use nicknames for each other. Wexler’s is Wex, Sean’s, Mac. It’s some kind of tribal bonding thing. Some of the names aren’t complimentary but the cops don’t complain. I know one down in Colorado Springs named Scoto whom most other cops call Scroto. Some even go all the way and call him Scrotum, but my guess is that you have to be a close friend to get away with that.
Wexler was built like a small bull, powerful but squat. A voice slowly cured over the years by cigarette smoke and whiskey. A hatchet face that always seemed red the times I saw him. I remember he drank Jim Beam over ice. I’m always interested in what cops drink. It tells a lot about them. When they’re taking it straight like that, I always think that maybe they’ve seen too many things too many times that most people never see even once. Sean was drinking Lite beer that night, but he was young. Even though he was the supe of the CAPs unit, he was at least ten years younger than Wexler. Maybe in ten years he would have been taking his medicine cold and straight like Wexler. But now I’ll never know.
I spent most of the drive out from Denver thinking about that night at the Pints Of. Not that anything important had happened. It was just drinks with my brother at the cop bar. And it was the last good time between us, before Theresa Lofton came up. That memory put me back in the aquarium.
But during the moments that reality was able to punch through the glass and into my heart, I was seized by a feeling of failure and grief. It was the first real tearing of the soul I had experienced in my thirty-four years. That included the death of my sister. I was too young then to properly grieve for Sarah or even to understand the pain of a life unfulfilled. I grieved now because I had not even known Sean was close to the edge. He was Lite beer while all the other cops I knew were whiskey on the rocks.
Of course, I also recognized how self-pitying this kind of grief was. The truth was that for a long time we hadn’t listened much to each other. We had taken different paths. And each time I acknowledged this truth the cycle of my grief would begin again.My brother once told me the theory of the limit. He said every homicide cop had a limit but the limit was unknown until it was reached. He was talking about dead bodies. Sean believed that there were just so many that a cop could look at. It was a different number for each person. Some hit it early. Some put in twenty in homicide and never got close. But there was a number. And when it came up, that was it. You transferred to records, you turned in your badge, you did something. Because you just couldn’t look at another one. And if you did, if you exceeded your limit, well, then you were in trouble. You might end up sucking down a bullet. That’s what Sean said.
The Poet ~ Micheal Connelly
suffering….. oh man I hate hangovers where they make you feeel soooooo tired, and you think you’ve swallowed a skunk.
but I love my new lappy…. layin in bed and on the net…. quality!
