Anyhoo (yes "anyway" was already taken).

There is no such thing as too many roast potatoes.

Especially when I do them (admittedly when I do them there is no such thing as diet roast potatoes, but the whole point is to use the fat from the meat).

The brother was down yesterday, minus the SIL, which unfortunately is a good thing (it's the perpetual presence, and the problems that causes, that gets wearing. Sometimes just having my brother being my brother is good).

To a certain extent it's horrible how much difference he makes. Woke at 2, hot, hungry, dehydrated, tired, worried about the ructions that would come in the morning. And then just lay there, bound with fears, until he came, while mother transformed into a functioning human being an hour before he got here. Comforting isn't it, they way that for one son she endeavours to pretend that all is well and that she's coping, and for the other, not so much (it wasn't helped by realising the last time she cooked was before Christmas).

And then he talked, not terribly different from the blond grin he used to be, and life became unconcerning. And we chatted, and didn't do much, and then ran for his train, missing it because darling Mr Souter's company get round penalties for late running by sending trains off early. And so we adjourned to the pub, to dust off the snow, be acknowledged yet ignored by the barmaid, who fortunately was inept enough to pour two pints of Doom Bar for the other bar when two halves were wanted, which meant we got our drinks a lot quicker than she intended to give them to us. Thus the one who isn't meant to drink and the one who has a wife waiting at home with dinner ready (and an obscene amount of food cooked to go in the new freezer) just-this-side-of-quaffed beer wrung from a Rock, while leaning back occasionally to see the rugby in the other bar (yay, apart from my brother had to go back to the SIL, who cheers for the other side).

It's odd how nice he is. And because certain things I ingest seem to make me a bit shruggish about consequences I told him this, while worrying about his wife not noticing when he needs help, but she is better than she was. Guessing the application of tact comes under the same bit of brain circuitry that double checks everything and gets stuck in cycles of anxiety. But I am sort of aware that I adore him, and rather hoping at some point I find someone who can deservedly match that level of adoration, but faintly concerned they may never do so. Isn't it supposed to be mothers one does this with?

It is rather strange to realise what I want in a relationship is what I already have with my brother, only perhaps a bit more frequent (and what's it say that I've never got good enough at sex to have it matter more than cuddling? Someone wrote somewhere while mocking emos "I just want someone to hold me", only I got the impression that quite a few of the other people reading it didn't see anything to be derided in that wish).

Always someone there to enfold me, ba bar bar bah.

Speaking of singing, I've been trying to learn a song choir did last week while I was away, Lullaby of Birdland, which has a varying rhythm best described as pernicious (meaning you can never get the damned thing under control). It also doesn't help that my easily distracted mood at the moment means I keep trying to segue into Pigeon Street.

I would say all this is inspired by WalkyMatt's singing efforts (ukeing at the same time? That's just showing off, even if he does have to look at the chord changes, thereby leaving us to wonder what happened to his tragus, and letting me notice he's another lobeless wonder, because clearly one can't do that IRL [it's ok, I can put whatever I want here as he's busy probing penguins, and I think he's stopped reading anyway, along with the person the in joke you just missed was aimed at]) except for months his site was down (or often was) so I've only just found it.

So do we think his is on a par the God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen?

Except, the old guard aren't here any more to get that reference, all having fled to Facebook or just fled (oh come back, all those I was never brave enough to contact directly, so lost when they got happy and stopped blogging).

And Facebook's not the same. It's all about strengths, blogging is everything, including the weaknesses and foibles.

But now, the dark is here, and I must face the dusty curtains. And sort things out for later. And try to get the right songs back in my head, in my mind, five years from now.

As for being exactly the person that I wanted to be: ouch.

Anyhoo,

PS. Oh dear god, the willow bit of Birdland is set obscenely high (the basses have to sing higher than the altos and the melody). I've never sung with my tonsils before.

Except I was told it starts on a E (generally the whole named notes and stavage thing doesn't happen, but I asked), and it seems to be only the one above middle C (assuming that is middle C), which doesn't sound that high, although the peak is G# (I think, trying to transpose something that may not be accurate to begin with). And playing round on a piano (well, website one) the peak is three octaves up from somewhere near the bottom of my comfortable range (I appear to be able to hit the bottom note on the keyboard. Clearly they need to make longer pianos).

I know I should just shut up and sing it, but my throat is actually sore (but breathing deeply in a room full of people with colds might have something do with it).