Peter has asked me, several times and a little anxiously, over the last few days, if I was up for going out on my birthday. YES. I MEAN, I DON’T KNOW IF I’M UP OR NOT BUT I’M GOING.*** NEVER MIND THE FOOD, I WANT MY CHAMPAGNE.
The food was good too.†
That’s our tablecloth because I thought I wouldn’t shoot off my flash in the face of the lively and interesting family party at the next table and waited till I got home where the crashed-out hellmob don’t care. But I recognise our table on my birthday because of the flowers waiting for us. Peter goes in to the florist’s next door and says ‘pink’. Since we go to this restaurant every year the florist is probably learning to recognise him.
Although, speaking of going to the same restaurant, regular blog readers will probably recognise the mirror frame in the ladies’. [Oops. I’ve edited it out. Next year.] But they have installed an OBNOXIOUS NEW LIGHTING FIXTURE that is unromantic in the extreme and that my peculiar posture is trying to disguise.
She’s sixty-two today, you know. She might want a lot of Vaseline on the lens.
And my favourite present. Remember I went to a Spectacular Yarn Fair last March with Nina, who felt she wanted to start knitting again? SHE MADE ME A RUFFLY SCARF. She is golden.
. . . Although Peter is giving me a sat nav finally if I can frelling figure out which one to order. I thought I had it all sorted—this is what I belong to WHICH? for, you go to their site, you are driven mad by the pop ups and the repeated demands to log in which you have already done, you read the reviews and you make an informed choice—and then I promptly fell, as into a large vat of ill-set custard, into a lot of customer reviews saying NO NO NOT THAT ONE. Whimper. Maybe I could just have Natty Bumppo on retainer.
Oh, and if you suspect you are seeing a knitting bag in the upper left hand corner of the photo, you are. It says: come to the Dark Side, we have yarn. I think Fiona may have given it to me. It contains the famous 12 mm needle project that I am advised I need a very large crochet hook or possibly a telephone pole with a hole punched in one end to weave in the ends with.
Notice knitting needles sticking out of fancy leather going-out-to-dinner bag.†† Ahem. I’m so used to carrying vast swathes of my life around in my ordinary daily knapsack–which as a result weighs a TON AND THREE QUARTERS and people not eternally preoccupied with the terror of being caught somewhere without enough to read/do tend to make remarks–that when I have to wedge myself for a few hours into a Fancy Going Out to Dinner Bag there are AWFUL DECISIONS TO BE MADE. In fact I don’t usually take my knitting to restaurants because (a) the light isn’t good enough and (b) I’LL PROBABY SPILL SOMETHING ON IT but the iPad goes as standard and it happens that most of what I’m presently reading is on e- and therefore I had space ordinarily taken up by hard copy AND THE KNITTING WON. Furthermore I now have this deeply cool little (pink) narrow-beam light that Peter gave me for reading the prayer service in the frelling dark at the monks’, which would work just as well clipped to a napkin in a restaurant as to my collar in an abbey.
And now maybe I’ll knit a few rows and go to bed. If the bed starts whirling when I turn the light off I will turn the light back on and knit a few more rows. Garter stitch is great when you’ve had too much champagne.†††
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* I saw Alfrick last night and told him it was my birthday today. So I got a happy-birthday email from him saying, Glad to see you last night while you were young. —There’s nothing like^ a monk for that unique and astonishing degree of professional kindness and sympathy and profound insight into the human condition. I’ve noticed it often with Alfrick. BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH.
** With apologies for another KESless Saturday. Friday night Street Pastors was . . . stressful. You know if Hampshire is going to become the latest seething hotbed of excitable youth and popular with the feuding lout faction I’m frelling going to retire. I didn’t sign on for all this commotion. I signed on to stroll around passing out hot drinks to the homeless and flipflops to the overly high-heeled. I can deal with a certain amount of off-the-wallness, both drug- and alcohol-related and/or the results of social-services failures. I didn’t sign on to get involved in the stuff that the cops are for. That’s what the cops are for. Also, of course, I’m still barely frelling walking post-stomach-flu, and this has a certain dispiriting effect. But yesterday was mostly another lost day, although talking to Alfrick was good in spite of his sense of humour.
*** You come too, like the poem says. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173534
† And seems to be staying where I put it, which is an important point.^
^ Champagne is of course noted for its stomach-soothing effects.+
+ What I want to know is if I start drinking only about eight hours after I got up in the cough-cough morning does that make me a LUSH? Except this early (cough-cough) in the day approach to sin and heinousness does give you extra time at the other end to take your hellmob out for supernumerary hurtles to wear sin, heinousness and 12% alcohol off again.#
# ::pours a second pot of peppermint tea into the internal cauldron::
†† Some clever helpful person is going to say ‘circulars’. I HATE CIRCULAR NEEDLES.
††† Non, je regrette rien.
THERE’S TOO MUCH GOING ON* including various bits of news** both good and bad that I haven’t entirely got my head around yet*** although when I do some of them will make it onto the blog.
Meanwhile I thought I might at least post some photos of an attic full of book boxes as requested by some strange person on the forum.
This is what greets you at the top of the stairs. That’s the corner of my old double bed from Maine on the left, hard up against the end wall, pretending to be a Guest Room. When I get it made up again it will be a very good place for Lying with the Hellmob. The hellhounds and I had begun to explore this interesting possibility back when Third House was still Third House. And a double bed is enough bigger than a sofa I may be able to trap the hellterror in place more effectively.
But this is what I mean about lack of impressiveness–although you may be dazzled by my colour sense–you’re looking at nineteen or twenty boxes wedged into that corner, but since you can only see the outside rows it’s a big meh.
You’re now standing with the bed behind you and the yellow filing cabinet to your left, looking down the length of the attic. This is the long kitchen table, worth £1.79, built out of bits Peter had found in rubbish tips, that when we moved out of the old house I REFUSED TO GIVE UP. And I was right. It is perfect as a long skinny attic table. That’s the notorious dormer window that has produced those interesting ceiling angles, some of which you can see. And those are avocadoes on the window sill, in case you’re wondering, ripening in the sunlight that blasts in during the day. If you peer into the murk to the far end of the attic you may just about be able to make out EMPTY SHELVES. Yes. I keep putting stuff on them and then taking it off again because how am I supposed to choose? Although Peter’s 1,000,000,000 bound annuals of PUNCH take up a good deal of the space you can’t see, and my encyclopaedia will go on those shelves too when I find the rest of it.
And that architectural feature in the upper right-hand corner is the boxed-in, so to speak, chimney. Why it has a sort of hoop skirt built out from it halfway down (or up) I have no idea, but all shelves to pile books and book boxes on are good shelves.
This is the left-hand far corner, so what is beyond the table on the same side of the attic. And again . . . not so impressive. But you’re looking at nearly thirty boxes you just can’t see most of them. What you are seeing at the bottom of the picture in the open box is the limited edition illustrated ROSE DAUGHTER.
This is now behind the chimney. Peter’s gazillion PUNCHES are immediately to your left; the corner with the unimpressive thirty boxes is now behind you . . . more or less. You’re a bit crowded back here.
I am particularly pleased with the table. It’s one of the few pieces of furniture that came over with me from Maine, with the bed and the blue velvet sofa, and it was for the chop this move; there was nowhere to put it. I’m a little nostalgic about the stuff I brought over with me because barring the 1,000,000,000 books there isn’t a lot of it–and I did have to get rid of my baby grand piano. This table has been sitting at the mews waiting for the axe to fall since like the kitchen table it isn’t worth anything BUT IT’S A PERFECTLY GOOD TABLE. And then I thought, wait a minute, I can use it a Mediating Structure to make the wrangling of book boxes marginally less appalling. So it’s shoved up against the back of the chimney and there are and/or will be stacks of two boxes below it and stacks of two boxes on top of it . . . instead of stacks of four boxes of books. Hurrah. Yessssss.
The view from above. Just by the way, don’t get too excited by any labels you may see. Most of them are wrong. Well, most of the ones on Peter’s backlist are wrong. My backlist, on the other hand, is 99% gorgeously and specifically accurate because I have a secret weapon named Fiona.
And, when appropriate, I get books out of their boxes and pile them interestingly in available gaps, available being another of those mutable concepts. I’ve got a lot of Peter’s piled up on the chimney shelf just out of frame in the long shot of the ex-kitchen table. And just by another way, I have no idea where SHADOWS is. I haven’t seen it at all. I hope it’s hiding somewhere at the cottage.
And because I am hopelessly neurotic, I’ve saved a few empty boxes . . . just in case I need them later. Yes, that’s a sink on your right. I have them piled in the loo because there isn’t anywhere else.
* * *
* Well how unusual
** No, no, not the kind you want
*** Although I HAD MY FIRST VOICE LESSON IN FOREVER on Monday YAAAAAAAY. It wasn’t even as bad as feared^ but I still have a good deal of lost ground to make up. AND BOTH MY PIANO AND I SOUND DIFFERENT IN THIRD HOUSE’S SITTING ROOM.
^ Although if it had been as bad as feared it would have involved alien abduction and earthquakes and a recount in Scotland that demonstrated that they’d left the UK after all, which leaves quite a lot of room for a voice lesson still to be pretty bad in.
Hellhounds are EIGHT YEARS OLD TODAY. How time flies when YOU KEEP MOVING HOUSE.* Meanwhile I got home later tonight than planned and discovered us embroiled in Fresh Connectivity Issues** JOY. And furthermore my piano tuner is coming tomorrow not Tuesday–ahem, in the MORNING.*** So you’ll have to forgive me merely slamming a bunch of photos at you without my usual graceful and spirited commentary. And as you cast your gaze over all these sleeping-hellhounds photos remember what I said on Pav’s birthday about needing to remember to find the action-shot button on my camera before I need it. All or nearly all the sprinting hellhound photos you remember are from my old camera which was a lot less glam but also a lot less complicated.
And if the background looks familiar, yes, these are all from the mews. I’m not even close to taking photos indoors at Third House.
Also forgive me if I linger a little on what is essentially the same shot. They’re so cute when they’re asleep.#
AWWWWWWW. Wooshily wooshily.
Hee hee hee hee. This is Darkness’ characteristic pose but Chaos does flip over on his back and look ridiculous occasionally too. SOMEWHERE I have a photo of them both upside down and grinning like loonies simultaneously but I can’t find it.
I have to organise Sofa Time at Third House. I get a lot of beady eyes when the hellterror is in my lap. ALL VERY WELL FOR HER. WHERE’S OUR SOFA?##
* * *
* I hope we get to STAY HERE.
** Late Sunday evening, you know.
*** JOY. The real kind.
# And not chasing frelling hedgehogs–I keep reminding myself hedgehog numbers are dwindling and endangered but I wish they’d have a population explosion somewhere else–or refusing to eat their lovely birthday dinner full of raw liver which when they’re eating is their favourite thing^, or nailing the sodding next door terrier except that I STOPPED THEM WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH ME. Neighbourly relations are going to get kind of strained here soon if next door doesn’t figure out they now need to keep the little **** on lead on this street. They needed to keep it on lead before, when it regularly crapped in my driveway but . . .
^ Possibly second favourite thing. They adore butter, and I’m YAAAAAAY CALORIES, but I imagine serious amounts of butter would not be a good idea. Besides if I gave it to them often or in quantity they’d go off it. It would become food.
## If I get organised enough we can also lie in heaps all over the bed in the attic, which is nice and low, unlike the hip-high four-poster at the cottage which furthermore, because it’s a very small bedroom full of stuff has no good angles of approach for leaping hellhounds. I have enough trouble even with longer legs and hands to hold onto bedposts with–and no, I don’t want to try with a hellterror under one arm.
IT’S PAV’S BIRTHDAY TODAY. PAV IS TWO YEARS OLD. . . . Which basically means she’s a snarky adolescent with a lot of attitude. Yeah. That about covers it. She’s also adorable. Just by the way. And she’s been remarkably good-natured about the amount of time she’s been spending in crates the last week. There are occasional eruptions but she always comes out the open door smiling and ready to have a good time.
I’d like to say I fed her steak for her birthday. Um. I didn’t feed her steak. But we had a very good Long Yellow Thing game this morning and a faaaaabulous tear around Third House’s garden this afternoon followed by a long lap.
There’s running around like a mad thing, and there’s hucklebutting. These are two separate and distinct activities. Hucklebutting frequently evolves from running around like a mad thing with the addition of certain agility feats including end-swapping, spinning round and round and rolling over and over and over. The interesting thing about this last aspect is that it tends to happen an inch or two above the ground. I have no idea. I only report what I see.
It RAINED last night. Just in time for the greenish stuff that we mow as if it were grass to take a deep happy breath and . . . turn more or less green again. Third House’s garden really is triangular, that’s not an optical illusion. It’ll be a really nice garden again as soon as we get the house a little more under control. Well not as soon as but you know what I mean. At the moment the willowherb is winning.
This in fact is the moment when Peter came out to join the fray, I mean fun, and she wanted to make sure I’d noticed. Unfortunately all the photos of her and him are either hopelessly blurry or I’ve cut his head off. You’ll just have to assume that a good time was had by all. Bruises optional.
I meant to write you a proper blog post tonight but the day has got away from me as days can do.* So I thought I’d finally post The Hellterror’s Morning Ritual. We all had a very itchy patch at the beginning of the spring. The three hellcritters ate holes in their fur, but it only really showed on the hellterror because of black overcoat, beige undercoat and pale pink skin: the hellhounds mostly match: steel-grey Darkness has black skin and fawn-coloured Chaos has pale skin. I had swollen ITCHY red eyes and I might well have chewed my eyelashes off if my face were configured for it. Everybody’s hair has mostly grown in again, but I almost miss the extravagance of the hellterror’s ritual when she really, really, really wants to scratch her back. Lately she’s more interested in whacking me with her long yellow rubber toy till I yield to the inevitable and play with her. But she doesn’t look moth eaten any more.
You have dogs because they make you laugh.
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* This includes that Penelope and I went to a big National Trust garden over Ditherington direction this afternoon and sat in the sun and totally vagued out the way denizens of the British Isles may very well because . . . sunlight!?!^
^ Also because most of Main Street in New Arcadia has been dug up and is in heaps placed for maximum inconvenience plus scaffolding+ and temporary stoplights with boa-constrictor sized cables running everywhere and GETTING ANYWHERE takes about 1,000,000 times longer than usual. In fact, I’m still in a frelling queue.
+ The scaffolding is up near me and isn’t the town unplanners or anything civic. The Big House on the Corner belongs to We Are Wealthier Than God#, You Are Peons and We Don’t Care, and they put scaffolding up at least once a year when buying and selling small countries palls and they want to make their presence felt closer to home. Then they hang workpersons all over the scaffolding in decorative patterns. Who eat sandwiches and chat and sometimes they sit on the planks dangling their feet. And six weeks or six months later they take the scaffolding down again.
# I don’t think God does money, does he/she/they?