Bell doodling
Today, as so often, began last night. Because I had a guest post from Oisin I had booked an appointment with a friend in America for a phone conversation during the usual blog-writing time. Appointments for such conversations are necessary first because I tend not to answer the phone—nasty noisy pushy thing—second because you never know which house I’m in and the last thing I want is people ringing me on Pooka—Pooka’s my friend! Don’t make her do the noisy-insistent thing at me!—and third because the landline at the cottage is now so thoroughly frelled that it sometimes takes the sacrifice of several black goats* before a usable connection is made.
I’d emailed Rima that I was going to be a few minutes late and I’d email her again once I got back to the cottage. Got back to cottage. Turned tiny backup laptop** on while taking harnesses off hellhounds***. When I went back to the computer it had large flashing coloured warnings all over its face saying your virus protection is out of date. Prepare to die. Mwa ha ha ha ha ha. So I, poor fool that I am, and since I know that both the desktop and the mews laptop are healthy, assumed it was a simple matter of pressing a button that would make the virus protection update itself. . . .
Most of half an hour later I was hoarse from screaming†, my neighbours had all decided to spend the night at a hotel, and the hellhounds were crammed into the back of their crate pretending to be dust motes. My virus protection will only download at 3 pm because that’s what the Archcomputerangel Raphael told it to do. It’s not 3 pm, it said, stop trying to bully me. And by the way, your virus protection is out of date. Prepare to die.
Rima and I did eventually have our conversation. I emailed her from Pooka.
But not sleeping awfully well last night was not on account of the bats.††
Vicky is especially scary on Sunday mornings because she’s awake and I’m not. She gets up early. She’s had her coffee, and her breakfast, and she’s thought about stuff, and she’s ready to deal. I reeled up the ladder, flopped on the bench, and became uneasily aware that Vicky was talking at me. She kept trying to make eye contact. Go away! It’s Sunday morning! I can’t possibly walk and talk at the same time! Or even sit and talk! I’m gathering my meagre resources to pull on a frelling rope here in a minute!
We need a flyer that can go in the order of service one Sunday, she was saying (or words to this general effect). As part of our push to raise money for the bells, we need to be seen to be doing something to encourage more people to learn to ring†††, especially young people.
Eh?
We need something that sounds fun and nonthreatening, she went on (or more words to more of this general effect). Maybe you [note: you] could do something with heavy metal?
Or how bell ringers get to make lots of loud, annoying noise, said Niall helpfully. I attempted to give him a I’ll-get-you-later glare. She wasn’t trying to make eye contact with him.
What?
So I thought, Vicky went on relentlessly—Vicky in mission mode is the irresistible force and the immovable object, especially on Sunday morning—you and Penelope‡ could get together and come up with a flyer. The church will print it up for us . . .
Blergh.
I am so not an advertising type—and neither is Penelope, although she’s one of these people who can put her hand to most things. But it was a beautiful Sunday morning, once I had adjusted to the morning part via massive injections of caffeine, and while I was out hurtling hounds‡‡ I considered this matter of the flyer.
And I was, if I say so myself, inspired.‡‡‡
Yes, the bell is imported. With a stapler.
* * *
* ‘Sacrifice’ in this case means ‘tickle the tummies of and send on their way’. It’s possible my problem is that I’m not doing this right.
** If it were new, it would be a netbook. It’s not new. So it’s a tiny, knapsack-sized laptop. The keyboard is big enough to use, which is all I care about. Pooka, I love you, but your keyboard is a nightmare.
*** . . . disgruntled by the prospect of staying downstairs. We had to stay downstairs because the phone that (usually) works is downstairs. Also, the mouse on the desktop upstairs in my office is fritzed. It’s not nearly old enough to be fritzed yet. Technology hates me. This is not new.
† I really have to stop this. I’m ruining my singing career.
†† Which have wildly erratic schedules. I think they’re all teenagers.
††† Penelope writes reviews for the local paper and poetry when she has time. She and Peter get together over a cup of tea most weeks in pursuit of the latter. So in the New Arcadia bell tower Penelope and I are the writers.
‡ This is a perfectly valid point, by the way. The church is underwriting our ten thousand smackers and that’s a lot of money for our little church.
‡‡ And listening to AC/DC on the Walkperson. Heavy metal is so uncool.
‡‡‡ This is a very rough sketch. It’s too big—it has to fit in half a sheet of A4^—and I have to sort out my spacing^^. Still. This is it.
^ 11.7 x 8.3”. British standard paper size. Just enough off 8 ½ x 11 to be weird.
^^ Spacing. Ugh. Spacing is way too much like maths. I can redo the people all right, but the lettering, even if I use the computer, is going to be bad.
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