This is a pencil
I am a pencil
I can write lots of things
and in Outer Space
I’m a clever little pencil
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IT Asset disposal (computers, laptops, mobile phones, printers etc.)
Data wiping and destruction
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Have a look at this: https://secure.38degrees.org.uk/protect-our-bbc
Government plans to rip out the heart of the BBC are taking shape. Imagine a BBC where newsnight is riddled with adverts. Or a BBC so underfunded that independent news becomes a thing of the past and the airwaves are dominated by Rupert Murdoch’s media. This is what the Government wants – we need to stop them.
The BBC has been a trusted voice in British homes for over 92 years. It’s vital we move fast and show David Cameron that hundreds of thousands of us are ready to rally around our BBC.
Will you add your name to the petition to protect our BBC now? Just click the link and it’ll take less than 10 seconds: https://secure.38degrees.org.uk/protect-our-bbc
I was once like you are now!
New and shining and full of hope!
Be careful of who you trust, cause they’re all out for number one!
(Written Wednesday 16 September 2015)
PROMISES UNDER THE MOON
By Katherine Givens
Wreathed in silver light,
Beneath the wandering moon,
Love comes slow. Banded in your arms,
Lulled into the heart’s quiet tune,
Grief fades into the darkness
Outside our cocoon.
Trust exchanged for trust,
Faith given for faith
We ascend—not fall—into passion.
Without greed, without regrets,
We belong to the night
As we belong to the day.
Our souls remain as one
So long as the moon gleams.
I think that this sounds like most of us. We are free to be ourselves, when no-one can see us!
Feeling unsure and nervous
Feeling lost and alone
Feeling not sure what I am
Its hard to explain this feeling inside
Its trying to escape and I’m not sure it should!
(Written Wednesday 20 May, 2015)
A poem by /u/Poem_for_your_sprog
The sun goes down upon the Ankh,
And slowly, softly fades –
Across the Drum; the Royal Bank;
The River-Gate; the Shades.
A stony circle’s closed to elves;
And here, where lines are blurred,
Between the stacks of books on shelves,
A quiet ‘Ook’ is heard.
A copper steps the city-street
On paths he’s often passed;
The final march; the final beat;
The time to rest at last.
He gives his badge a final shine,
And sadly shakes his head –
While Granny lies beneath a sign
That says: ‘I aten’t dead.’
The Luggage shifts in sleep and dreams;
It’s now. The time’s at hand.
For where it’s always night, it seems,
A timer clears of sand.
And so it is that Death arrives,
When all the time has gone…
But dreams endure, and hope survives,
And Discworld carries on.
Fantasy author Sir Terry Pratchett has died aged 66, having had Alzheimer’s disease for eight years. “The world has lost one of its brightest, sharpest minds,” said Larry Finlay of his publishing company, Transworld. Best known for the Discworld series, Sir Terry wrote more than 70 books over his lengthy career. He was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2007, but continued writing, completing his final book last summer. The author died at home “with his cat sleeping on his bed, surrounded by his family,” Mr Finlay said.