I need a night off.
. . . It’s already after midnight and I’m still eating dinner.* I made a little error about the evening’s entertainment . . . which is to say I went tower bell ringing after handbells. I am insane.
Niall has been out stabbing the shrubbery again for more handbell ringers but in frustration I believe he also recently hired a Dark Enchanter to cast a spell to catch the vulnerable. And it worked . . . he brought a new sacrifice—I mean sucker—I mean . . . uh . . . student along this evening. This poor deranged woman had phoned up about learning method ringing on handbells. Phoned up out of nowhere! As if on her own volition! Although over the phone is probably good, she wouldn’t’ve been able to see him drooling. But I approve of the Dark Enchanter approach: the problem with stabbing is the bloodstains. I still have the scars from when Niall caught me.***
Meanwhile Bronwen, who is possibly even more insane than I am, had come down from Skye again to ring handbells, and was then planning to go on to Crabbiton (again) and ring with Wild Robert, who apparently dazzled her with his campanological pyrotechnics last week (if it was last week. It’s after midnight, my brain has turned into a pumpkin**). He has that effect on most people. I was a write-off last Thursday but I’m still today slightly too happy to be rid† of the Fluey Thing†† so I decided to go along.
BIG. MISTAKE. BIG FRELLING MISTAKE. Wild Robert wasn’t there††† and there were about nine of us . . . each of us more incompetent than the one before. I was the top end of our skill range.‡ Poor Bronwen, who has only been ringing a couple of years: she needs to drive eighteen hours through hail, sleet and intemperate snow‡‡ to fail to get to ring anything. ARRRRGH. It was certainly a face-slapper of a reminder of how far I have yet to go to be a good Deputy Ringing Master. Felicity, who was the one other ringer there who kind of ought to know what she’s doing, and I exchanged embarrassed glances and promised to go home and read up on not merely calling a few little touches of things but being able to sort the other ringers out when things do not go according to plan.‡‡‡
So maybe I’ll take a blog night off tomorrow. . . .
* * *
*Well . . . actually I’m often still eating dinner after midnight. I’m a slow eater, I’m usually TYPING, I forget to keep eating . . . and why not dinner after midnight anyway?
** My brain spends most of its time being a pumpkin. Or possibly a confused rat in a waistcoat and knee breeches.
*** I’ll hold off a week before I name her in case the spell wears off and she comes to her senses, but she passes the important test which is that she admired the hellhounds extravagantly. They’re beautiful, she said, as they twined around her batting their long eyelashes and doing their I’m so personable-charming-and-well-behaved trick. She said that whippets (and whippety things) are rare around here and I said yes they were but funny you should mention that, there’s an ad for whippet puppies in Gallowglass on the wall at the vet’s.
There was also, just by the way, an ad for kittens.^ One tabby female and three ginger toms. Stripy marmalade ones: there’s a photo.
No. I did not take the phone number.^^
^ I had a perfectly good reason to be in the vets’! Hellhounds get wormed in September! I needed to buy the wormer! And it’s not my fault that there was no one at the counter and I was too stupid to see the BELL on the WALL with the LARGE RED SIGN UNDER IT SAYING ‘PLEASE RING’ and that therefore I was reduced to READING THE ADS on the BULLETIN BOARD WALL while I was waiting for someone to emerge from the back!
^^ Well. Maybe I took the phone number.+
+ Maybe I took the phone number, but I lost it.=
= Well. Maybe I didn’t lose it but it’s after midnight and I didn’t phone. . . .
† apparently
†† I am bizarrely unimpaired by carrying all that backlist upstairs yesterday.^ If I didn’t have a witness I’d think I imagined it.
Maybe this means I should go back and do some more. No! No! I’m sure that’s not the right answer!
^ That was actually supposed to be a joke, about a prize copy of the original book in English, last night. Clearly authors should not make jokes about books. So, okay, I’m going to give away at least one copy of . . . mmrmph. I haven’t decided if I’m going to try to do something retroactively fiendish or whether I’ll just put all the names of those of you who guessed right in a hat and . . . ask the hellkitten to choose one this weekend. I met Phineas as we were each getting out of our respective cars this afternoon. He can barely look at me lately without laughing. It’s a rather nefarious laugh. I can’t imagine why.
††† Here insert moaning and rending of garments. This never happens. Wild Robert is always at his tower(s)—let alone missing twice in about a month—I went a few weeks ago and he wasn’t there. Maybe I’m the jinx. Well, after this I’m going to be prepared and prior-planned jinx. I’m going to email the man and demand his schedule.
‡ Be afraid. Be very afraid.
‡‡ And homicidal yeti.
‡‡‡ No! No! My brain is a pumpkin! Or possibly a confused rat in a waistcoat and knee breeches! A confused menopausal rat in waistcoat and knee breeches! We’re not only stupid, we cry easily!
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