July 31, 2011

Another how many things can you get wrong day. Plus doodles.


It has been another of my HOW MANY THINGS CAN YOU GET WRONG days—including HOW MANY WRONGS CAN THINGS GET YOU.  I began by making a total horse’s rear end of Grandsire doubles for pity’s sake at service ring and Penelope saying later when I moaned to her about it that even Vicky and Roger get it wrong sometimes was no comfort.

            What with one thing and another this week—chiefly ME and visitors—hellhounds and I have mostly been hurtling around town** and I was determined to get out of town today, and I chose one of our favourite walks, from Ditherington up and down dale to Warm Upford.  We’d got off later than I planned, of course, and our footpath had meanwhile become glued up with frelling tourists***.  We streamed past these impedimenta and shot out into the farther-from-where-you-can-have-parked-the-car reaches, where the crowds thin out.  And then on the way back. . . .

            There was an era when All Stars’ laces were waaaaay too frelling long.  I can even date it for you:  all the All Stars I bought at Jack’s Shoes the year I was guest of honor at Wiscon—2005†—had laces for Paul Bunyan’s thigh boots, and I’d noticed more of the same elsewhere around that time.  I was wearing one of these pairs today.  I had about sixteen knots in them . . . which had stealthily started coming undone on one shoe.  And I managed to put my other foot in the resulting loop and fell down.  ARRRRGH.  There was language.  There was quite a lot of language.††  There were also two skinned knees, one of which is trying to turn into an aubergine†††—I’m in shorts—a skinned elbow, a mildly wrenched wrist and a fairly significantly sprained finger‡ and some major temper.  I was in no mood to appreciate it at the time, but when we got to the top of the hill there was a woman with three small children attempting to hide in the shrubbery.  I think she heard me. . . .


Love, love the flying foogit! And there I was, thinking you’d started a new line in chrysanthemums. 

There is something rather mysterious about foogit reproduction.  Perhaps there’s a vegetative stage that has been hitherto overlooked?

Diane in MN

I will also want a commemorative plaque on the wall of the ringing chamber and a quarter peal of Cambridgerung in my honour.

If you bring them a five-figure donation, I don’t think you’ll have any problem with this! 

FIVE figures???   . . . You’re buying a lot of doodles/books/Special Items of Interest, then, are you?  Thank you very much!  Very happy to arrange for a plaque and a quarter peal for you too!


Yes! I am going to have to buy a foogit doodle. (Though the muffin with fangs is hilarious.)

You can buy both.  Indeed, I encourage it. 

Okay, we’re going to try again with frelling WordPress’ photo-loading skwitzlflagelblat.  And I am looking at the amount of time I’m spending on all this, which several of you have brought up, and I’m thinking I may raise the doodle prices slightly—make $5 merely a ‘thanks and best wishes from the New Arcadia bells and Robin McKinley’ sans doodle, and then the lower end doodle for $10 and the upper end doodle for $15.  Which would make the following $15, and Friday night’s $10.

I'm not sure even for $15 I can manage this level of value-added muffin too many times. I know you don't eat a muffin with a knife and fork but a table knife, um . . . and Charlie's is the only cafe known to sell champagne by the glass . . .


Pegasi are kind of scary--cartoons don't really lend themselves to breathtaking beauty. But I can do bats. Lots and lots of bats.


The muffin with fangs was someone else’s idea.  I had thought of baked goods with teeth, but I hadn’t got round to experimenting yet.  Is there anything else anyone out there wants to suggest of a doodly nature?  As I keep saying I can only do what I can do, and I think Death of Marat would look like a blob in a pudding basin . . . although that brings up another question, that of labelling.  The map of Damar, supposing anyone is mad enough to request it, isn’t going to look like much without a label, for example. 

I feel this is also better with a label.


Which reminds me of another caveat:  I need to get as much blog material out of this auction as possible, and if anyone asks for anything I find particularly amusing and can manage to draw, I will post it here.  I won’t post your name but I’ll post it.  This will eventually include things like the sonata for three harps and bicycle pump, and the knitting, supposing these deranged items sell. . . .‡

 * * *

* But she gets lots of points for trying. 

** This doesn’t necessarily mean pavement.  There are fields a few minutes’ walk from here^.  But there aren’t enough of them, and not all of them contain public footpaths.

^ Any of my three ‘heres’

*** Including the kind with aggressive off-lead dogs.  What is the matter with people?  I got some fool woman smiling and saying hello to me while her two gigantic frelling Labs were busy climbing all over my hellhounds.  They didn’t seem to have mayhem on their minds^, fortunately, but they’re still off lead and twice the size of either of mine.  And their owner was paying no attention. 

^ Minds? 

† I had to look it up.  Dates?  Remember?  Are you kidding?  I did very well to remember Peter’s and my 20th.  Oh, gods, the hellhounds have a birthday in a fortnight. . . I wonder which one it is . . . . 

†† Don’t forget that scientists have proved that swearing eases pain.  http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/8458163/Swearing-can-help-relieve-pain-study-claims.html 

Yes, I know I’ve posted it before.  It’s relevant to me kind of a lot.

††† Eggplant.  The purple kind.  Yaaaaaay arnica.  I still have a knee.  And that pale lavender is rather attractive. 

‡ And it’s my clicking finger. 

‡‡ And meanwhile when is the freller going to start?  Well, there’s a slight administrative hiccup out of Blogmom’s and my hands.  I am hoping a solution will arrive during working hours tomorrow.


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