July 13, 2010

Big dumb yuck


How has it been a bad day?  Let me count the ways.*

            The phone rang at mmph o’clock plus four, and I’d forgotten to unplug the sucker.**   

            The weather is like being suspended in wet foam rubber.  Wet grey foam rubber.  You can’t see, you can’t breathe, and sudden gestures, supposing you have the energy to make any, make the air squelch.  But will it RAIN?  Noooooooo.  It keeps dripping, like a leaky pot, and every time hellhounds and I venture forth it dribbles a little harder.   It extravasates just enough to soak your All Stars, muddy your jeans-bottoms and make your hellhounds cranky.  But rain?  I wouldn’t go that far.  I have put on and taken off my raincoat several times today in a hopeless, ritualistic manner . . . I want it to rain hard enough to need to put it on, you know?  But the pressure of the soggy foam meteorological rubber makes the weight of a raincoat across my shoulder and the contact of Gore-Tex against my bare arms feel like burning brands, or at least a large boa constrictor.   And yes, this weather has a severe effect on brain function, aside from being woken up after four hours of sleep by the phone going off like a hand grenade. 

            So maybe it’s a good thing that Blondel stood me up.  Maybe he had an aural vision*** of me practising my Italian,†  and decided he couldn’t cope with that and being wrapped in wet grey foam rubber.  But I was then already in Mauncester, and I didn’t want to waste the journey . . . so I went to a garden centre.  AAAAAUGH.††

            And then I stood up my new osteopath††† because I am a stupid cow, and they’re going to rescind my hellgoddesshood if I’m not careful.  This missed appointment I will of course have to pay for.

            We will not discuss PEG II at all.

            And I will only briefly animadvert on the topic of my New Least Favourite Mail from Readers, of which there have been several prime examples in the last few days, all of which begin, thematically if not literally: I know you said you aren’t going to write a sequel to SUNSHINE, but . . .  You’re not getting it, guys.  You. Are. Not. Getting. It.  And I hope this blog is not leading you into the error of believing that I have a sense of humour.  No.  Wrong.  I have tanks, swords, bazookas, hand grenades, hellhounds, boa constrictors, and extra-extra-extra large, hungry pitcher plants . . . but no sense of humour whatsoever.  I suggest you make a note. 

            I am, however, reading a delightful book, which I look forward to blogging about in due course.‡  What this stupid, dank, revolting day needs is a nice bath and the last few chapters of a delightful book ‡‡.  And may tomorrow be better.  Gaaaah. 

* * *

 * And my quotation-mangling doesn’t scan.  This is the sort of thing Peter will point out tomorrow morning after he reads the blog.^ 

^ I am trashed to the depth and breadth and height

My hand can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the lead-ends of Darkness and Chaos.

I am trashed to the level of everyday’s

Unjust wallop, by sun and vampire night.

I am trashed freely, as trashings blight,

And I don’t think anything rhymes with ‘Chaos’

At least not when you’re trashed

Beneath your station.

I am trashed with every bruising breath,

Screams, tears, etc, etc, and if fates so lash,

I shall be but better trashed

In my next incarnation.

** Thus the punishment of a Deputy Ringing Master organising her first quarter peal.  I’ve already done it.  Go away.  I don’t want to hear any more about it till 5 pm next Sunday when everyone bounces jovially up the ladder beautifully on time.  What I particularly don’t want is the phone call Saturday night . . . or Sunday afternoon at 3:30 . . . saying that something has come up and they can’t make it.  Vicky has a lot of these stories.  I’m avoiding Vicky this week too.

 *** Auralion.  Aurision. 


†† Furthermore, while it is a very large, very shiny garden centre, which is why I do occasionally go there in spite of tearful pleading from my good angel, it is the sort of suspicious, ill-natured large shiny garden centre that chains all its trolleys up in a long awkward cordon.  To wrest one away from its gulag, you have to stick a pound coin in the slot on the handle and slam it forward, which makes the end of the chain drop out on the far side.  You get your pound—or somebody’s pound—back again at the end when you reverse the process and slam the end of the chain into the rear of the slot and the pound springs out.  But the system is a nuisance, aside from needing a pound coin when your pocket is full of pence and 20p pieces, and it means that when the trolley you have freed for your very own turns out to be possessed by demons you probably don’t go to the customer service desk and ask for change for a fiver and go wrestle with chains and pounds till you find a well-behaved one, you probably just stagger around with it while it tries to drag all of your joints out of their sockets and then ram the nearest wall, causing passing staff members to wonder if you need a breathalyzer test.  Several hours later you will be sitting at your kitchen table writing your blog entry for the evening and wondering if your rheumatism has taken a shocking turn for the worse or if it was that damned trolley.

††† Whom, you understand, I really needed today.  I needed him before I was bested by a garden-centre trolley too:  I was seriously peeved at Darkness^ this morning and as he was walking primly on short loose lead to have time to contemplate his dreadful sins without distraction by interesting smells and little rustling things in the hedgerows my hand rather froze on his lead, and the paralysis went zinging up my arm and sank KA-CHUNG into my shoulder.  At present my head only turns to the left.  Until I can rebook with the osteopath.

 ^ No, really?  Lovely adorable sweet obedient only-lives-to-please Darkness?

‡ I seem to be amassing positively an alp of books to be blogged.  I should get my literary butt in gear. 

‡‡ Which she had better not frelling frell up.  The way this day is going . . .


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