Winter, continued
A metaphor for life:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFYcqb-Zv50 *
Well, my life anyway. It’s been snowing again, although we had mini-hail–the kind that looks like something you sprinkle on a cake–this morning while hellhounds were hurtling, and whatever it is, it hasn’t been sticking: a twinkle or two, a sneer, and it’s gone again. But I’m beginning to think the ME actually does have my best interests at heart: at present getting out of bed in the morning is the worst, closely followed by accompanying hellhounds on their morning constitutional. I feel as flimsy as silk chiffon and trying to get my legs to do the bending and straightening, walking number is like trying to articulate string.** I fall into the car again gasping, thinking, how am I going to get through the rest of the day? . . . And then, comparatively speaking, it’s not so bad.*** I get a little writing done†, a little composing††, a little editing.†††
And another hellhound walk. Moan.
In weather like this, when the wind lashes you like a cat o’ nine tails–and snarls like the bosun wielding it–and the footing has ridges like a kitchen mandoline, except when it crackles, snaps, and drops you into ankle-deep freezing slush, anyone but a madwoman, or a possessor of hellhounds, would stay indoors in the first place. The real reason I don’t put coats on them is to give me the excuse to go home sooner. Hey! Wait a minute! I’m ill! I can go home now! And it has seemed to me once or twice recently that hellhounds are developing a brand-new, hitherto entirely unknown appreciation of crashed outness in the warm.‡
I believe Hampshire is closed due to weather a few miles north of here, and we had a thin turnout at bell practise tonight.‡‡ But the roads are mostly clear–no thanks to the county council–so although we’re due to have a really fierce frost tonight I should be able to get both in and out of my steep little street. I actually do get kind of fretful and claustrophobic if I don’t go some kind of out every day. I could have had cats, or Chihuahuas. Long-legged 150 mph hellhounds were my idea.
Meanwhile, one of my new camellias–one of the hardy ones, one of the ones that has been outdoors all these weeks in its inadequate pot–is trying to flower. I know why my fruit trees–and the rose hedge–are trying to flower, and why the osteospermums and geraniums are flowering–but it’s freezing out there! Well, back in the days, like, four months ago, when I still believed in soft English winters, I was always looking for things that flowered early or late: I’ve got roses that will take care of most of the May-October stretch. I probably bought a camellia because it flowers in February. Maybe I’d better . . . sigh . . . bring it indoors. . . .
* * *
* Thank you, Hannah
** Or like trying to push your bell up, as the standard joke about catching the sally^ too high goes.
^ Sally, the fuzzy thing that forms a kind of handle on a bell-rope. If you catch it too high, your bell can’t finish its swing. It also yanks your arms out of their shoulder sockets. Both of these phenomena are strenuously+ to be avoided.
+ Sic
*** Especially the part about lying on the sofa, say the hellhounds
† . . . She could think of nothing to say.
“The king has already sent a foka to investigate,” said Hathin, and paused. Sylvi shivered. She felt as if her telltale bruise were glowing–that Hathin would be able to see it, even under two shirts and a tunic. It began to itch furiously, and she had to twist her hands together not to scratch.
Hathin took two steps forward and leaned over her study table. He put his hands over her knotted fists–he was a small man, and his hands were barely bigger than hers–and said suddenly, urgently, “Child–both you children–be careful. No–don’t say anything–I don’t want to hear it. Because I stand at your elbow so often I think you–both of you–forget I am there, because you do not need me.”
“Oh, Hathin,” she said, distressed. “We are very rude –”
Hathin shook his head. “That does not matter in the slightest; as your Speaker I am present for your convenience. But I am not the least of Speakers, and perhaps I hear more than you guess. And if I hear anything at all, then others may hear something too.”
There was a knock on the door. Hathin stepped back from the table and became Hathin again, small, faintly rumpled, mild, ordinary, nearly invisible, except for the fact that he was tutor and Speaker to the princess. . . .^
^ http://failblog.org/2009/01/08/childrens-books-fail/ +
+ Thank you, Blackbear
†† Battle Gem^ is going rather well. Although I suspect some of why I usually feel chirpy on Friday afternoons is because Oisin can make anything sound real by playing it as if it were real. Oh for another six hours in the day.^^
^ Which, I think I’ve told you this?, is Battle Hymn of the Republic smushed together with Columbia the Gem of the Ocean, plus lashings of Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful. I’m having such fun.
^^ And the brain energy to go with them. One of the ME’s other, related crimes–related to the teaching-hellhounds-lying-on-the-sofa malefaction–is that I’m sleeping seven, eight hours a night. I haven’t got time for seven hours’ sleep!
††† Peter, Peter’s agent, and I all agree that Peter’s new novel is excellent . . . but it needs to be shorter. Hey–why is everyone looking at me? Let it be noted, however, that slashing brutally through subtle, exquisite dialogue and crucial developmental scenes is a very good thing to do while lying on a sofa covered in hellhounds.
‡ I am also happy to report that we have returned to the New Normal in the digestive sector. And we took the rejected boluses back to the vet this afternoon, I having firmly told hellhounds they were not allowed to snigger behind their paws.
‡‡ But at least I managed to ring a perfect touch of Grandsire Doubles having royally wrecked an attempt last Sunday morning. Sigh. I am really not doing mornings at the moment.
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