hippy (no capital) was a name that somehow developed from spending too much time in Glastonbury during my later school years, and then an unfortunate taste in tie-dyed leggings in my first year at university. Hippyshit is the random witterings, dreams and visions, poorly interpreted perceptions and topographically inclined utterings of the person that social misfit became. Still a social misfit, is the woman called Sam, but not in any hurry to change, any more than the cat stretching luxuriously on the grass is in a hurry to move.

There is a bit here about the nature of weblogs. This sort of goes some way towards trying to explain why the blogs are about the only things that get updated with any frequency round here. It also has a few links to other blogs and blog resources on there, in case you would like to investigate the phenomenon for yourself.

And now a warning:

PLEASE NOTE: The material contained within portions of this section may include strong language and things that the reader may find disturbing. Material in this section may well contain explicit sexual references, explicit language, and descriptions of altered states of consciousness and/or personal experiences of mental instability.

There. You can't say I didn't tell you in advance.

Here you can find out a bit about me and some food that I like. You can also read about an illness that I am currently still learning to live with, and there is even a symptom diary from when it was at its worst, for the truly masochistic amongst you.

The Ship's Log extract reminds me of happy times spent with family rather than Family. The Gaelic in the story in that log was almost entirely invented, and all the characters but Prince Brennan were made up (although I guess if I were a newage mystic I might say "channelled" - but then I would have to wash my mouth out). However, you can see the face in the cliff and the caves next to them, Shuna, the Corry and the Garvellachs are all real places, and there is a lot of interesting archaeology out there. Do go if you ever get the chance, and say hi to the people at the Isle of Jura distillery for me.

The wedding is pretty self-explanatory - there are no decent pictures, sadly, or I'd put some up. I've lost weight since then as well. And have shorter hair.

And finally... is un homage to the sillier aspects of our life. And no one has yet claimed the prize.

The Training Diary is currently on hold (and has been moved into the bike section) for various reasons. I want to stay fit, prevent myself getting sick to the point of being debilitated again, cycle longer distances with less fatigue and I want to look like Sigourney Weaver in Alien 4. Or possibly Tank Girl, because she's my hero. I am getting there. A 35 mile a day commuter run is helping immensely

Some of the other tales are rather odd.

The Family stuff - well. I am haunted by those images and the ideas behind them. Some readers may recognise the imagery, may even recognise the occasions that provoked these stories. Some of you might read these passages and have that itch-burn sensation of something right on the tip of your mind. Don't fret. Don't dig at it. Don't try to worm your way into that space. Read, be entertained. Let the thoughts come as they may, or may not. At the end of the day, it's not really that important.

Critical Mass is a peculiar little item, best described by the feeling engendered by the question: "Pop quiz hot-shot. What would you do?" and the desire to say "Well screw you, ho-ho."

The shifting sequence meant a lot to me and someone who was very close to me at the time, and from the mail I received when it was new, touched a fair few other readers as well. There are four parts to that now, although I expect there are more to come. Each of them has a slightly different feel from the others, which is as it should be. As with all things, memories change as we gain new experience with which to interpret the insubstance of our personal recordings, and I feel differently about those stories than I did when I wrote them. My favourite remains as Memories, experiences and impressions so close to my consensus childhood it is possible to blur the two and not feel that I am fooling myself too much.