Yarrrrrggggh. I promised Blogmom a doodle update today. And I’ve had my head down over stuff today* SECURE in the knowledge that I had a dozen doodle photos to choose from as illustration for the unwelcome news that . . . yes, I’m still turning the poor neglected things out. I mean, no I’m not done, no, I didn’t put the final load in the post today. At the moment Third House is getting in the way of [ever snail-like] doodle production: the sad truth is that doodles are the first thing to be shoved back in a corner when life starts whapping me up longside the head again.**
I know. It’s been two years. Two years. In fact OVER two years.
I’m sorry. Which with £3 or so will buy you a Starbucks Gooey-o-rama with chocolate sprinkles and a paper parasol.
As I have said on more than one occasion on these virtual pages I WILL NEVER, EVER, EVER DO ANYTHING LIKE THIS AGAIN. But I will still ask Blogmom to set up a Doodle Shop when—and only WHEN—I get this ancient hoary backlog cleared. It’s not the doodles that are the problem: doodling, when I’m actually sitting there doing it, is fun. The problem is the doodler’s lack of a sense of time. Or lack of sense full stop.
So . . . I had twelve*** photos from which I would choose eight or ten to DEMONSTRATE that to the extent there was ever any touch to this silly business I haven’t lost it.† And when I stuck my memory card into my computer I discovered that I had had one of my UNUSUALLY CLUELESS MOMENTS, although I admit I have them rather a lot with this camera, and all but two of said doodle photos are dark grey and blurry. AAAAAAAAAUGH.
All right. That leaves two.
Oh. And Happy Thanksgiving.
* * *
* Well, and handbells. One of the many dumb things I feel guilty about is handbells, change ringing on handbells being one of the difficult frelling skills I have no frelling gift for that I’ve somehow managed to let myself get tangled up with.^ Having no (frelling) gift for it means I should spend more time studying and I, um, don’t. I don’t have time or I don’t have brain energy or I have too many dogs or [other explanations insert HERE]. But I like ringing handbells, except that it makes me feel even stupider than usual. So when Niall rings up and is insinuating my brain starts to explode. No! Yes! No! Yes! Noyesnoyesnoyesnoyes!!!! Niall, being Niall, only hears the yes part.
Niall rang up and was insinuating and heard ‘yes’. So we were going to ring handbells tonight. And then Colin’s builder discovered that the dumbleg trumwale^^ had morveldinky, and had to be FORKLED. RIGHT NOW. Which meant Colin wasn’t going to be able to get away early enough for handbells. OH THAT’S REALLY TOO BAD [I had no sleep last night and feel like death not at all well warmed over] I said, trying not to hiccup with delight.
And then I took Pav out for a supernumerary hurtle. She’s so self motivated that it’s rather too easy, when circumstances oppress, to decide that she expends enough energy in a relatively short space of time that merely getting underfoot counts to some extent.^^^
Pooka started barking at me as we were making our zigzag way home from Old Eden. Curses. Who invented mobile phones anyway.
It was Colin. The forkling had gone with unwonted dispatch. He was free for handbells after all.
So we rang handbells. THEY MADE ME CONDUCT. THEY MADE ME CALL THE FRELLING BOBS. AND THE EQUALLY FRELLING SINGLES.
^ Niall, you ratbag.
^^ It’s a particularly large and valuable dumbleg trumwale I believe.
^^^ No you may not eat my slippers. You may nest in the dirty laundry, you may not shred it. No you may not chew the corners of the furniture. No you may not chew any of the corners of any of the furniture. No you may not excavate the Ancient Magazine Pile under the kitchen table.+ No you may not wedge yourself under the tallboy++ to retrieve+++ the dustpan, the assortment of brushes, and Peter’s spare slippers.# No you may not torture hellhounds. No you may not torture me.
. . . At this point I frequently find myself thinking that it would be a lot simpler just to take her for an official hurtle and then feel justified in making her long down for a while.
+ This is a scary one.
++ I was HOPING she would get too big to do this.
+++ Retrieve, cough cough. Retrieve. Well, it starts with the retrieve.
# This list pertains to mayhem at the cottage.
** I know. It should be handbells. Although one of the reasons I don’t do my handbell homework is that if I have a few brain cells left at an unexpected time of day I don’t whip out a handbell method line, I whip out a pencil for a doodle.
*** No. Actually I had sixteen.
† Another way of saying this is that you can’t lose what you didn’t have.
Arrrrrrgh. I am not getting on with sorting out Third House for rental as fast as I should through a combination of factors: gremlins, gremlins, ME, native disorganizational genius, deep personal reluctance imperfectly repressed and gremlins. Did I mention gremlins? Originally I was going to start moving [Peter’s and my] backlist to the storage warehouse last week but Atlas and I got our diaries crossed* and he showed up on Thursday when I was going to the dentist.** ARRRRRGH.
First opportunity for a reschedule was today. I am not sleeping well*** and I have all these CRITTERS to hurtle and Peter and Atlas are detestably early risers so they played pinochle or something till I pantingly arrived, having run the hellterror 6,728 times around the (tiny) kitchen at the cottage, including over the island and across the ceiling† while I mainlined black tea, then locked her back in her crate with her breakfast†† and threw the hellhounds in the back of Wolfgang for ballast. We convoyed to Hrothgar’s Hall††† with Atlas going uphill at about twelve miles an hour with all that backlist dragging him down, and Peter noted lugubriously that it was too far for him to come on his bicycle. !!!!!!!*&^%$£”!!!!!!!! YES, IT IS.
We fell out of our various vehicles and I made a horse’s ass of myself trying to break into . . . I mean, use my honestly-acquired keys and instructions to get us into the flipping warehouse and open the loading gate. I’d still be there‡ if Atlas hadn’t cleared his throat and indicated salient features a couple of times. How does he KNOW? These frelling mechanical people. It’s like being able to do maths in your head or fly by flapping your arms. You’re either born with the gift or you aren’t.
I took hellhounds for a sprint around the perimeter while Atlas and Peter got on with unloading. There were sheep, white-winged doves that made me come all over Emmylou Harris and make a nice change from pigeons, and horses. This may have possibilities: I’ll have to look at the local footpath map. I quite like the idea of going for six copies of THE SUNSHINE ROSE HERO AND THE OUTLAW BLUE PEGASUS CHALICE END and having a nice country hurtle with some critters while I’m at it.‡‡
I looked at the space remaining in the tiny cubicle—the barely-more-than-a-cupboard—after Atlas and Peter had made tidy box-piles against one wall, and thought dark, evil thoughts. Then we all went home for lunch‡‡‡ . . . after which I crept, bent and oppressed with woe,§ back up to Third House and squinted, with the other eye squeezed shut, at the remaining boxes of backlist and 4,341 other people’s books still on shelves. . . .
Bottom line. I haven’t got a prayer of getting all those books in that space.§§ Never mind the odd box of towels§§§ and maybe kitchen china too.#
So Atlas brought the next load, this time of my backlist, along since that’s what he was there for and we weren’t going to burst out of the confines of the cupboard till the third load, and I applied to the Nice Man## who runs Hrothgar’s Hall and . . . of course he’s just rented the last remaining next-size-up cupboard and only has small airplane hangar—sort of helicopter hanger—sized units left. So I am faced with ENTIRELY READJUSTING my plans for only having stuff like backlist that we need to have available in this place and storing the big stuff in the very-slightly-cheaper, but-your-stuff-goes-away-and-you-can’t-get-at-it warehouse.
I’m so happy. Not.
* * *
* A little like pistols at dawn, but not very
** That whole side of my head is still irregularly flaring and snarling and saying DON’T DO THAT AGAIN, OKAY? Whimper. But he’s not done yet.
*** I am still breathing = I am not sleeping well
† The pans hanging from the ceiling rack making a musical noise as she weaves among them like a barrel-racing Quarter horse
†† She is now getting most of her food via kong. http://www.kongcompany.com/en-uk/
This is supposed to help keep her amused. Rather than just chowing down the contents of her bowl faster than the speed of light^ she has to work for her meals. Well, yes, but trust the hellcritter that belongs to me to find an alternative application. Your dog is supposed to chew the thing: Pav mainly throws it around. She does some chewing . . . but mostly she throws it around. Whang. Whang. WHOP. Whang. As musical accompaniments go I prefer the ting-tong of clashing pans.
^ This is totally true, you know. Scientists should investigate the physics of bullie food-inhalation. I’m sure the resulting warp drive would be better than dilithium crystals. We might make it to the stars after all.
††† Big storage facilities are creepy. I’m sure there are some really excellent horror stories about big storage facilities. Don’t bother to tell me: there’s no way I’m going to read any of them.
‡ And the hellterror would be very cross and HUNGRY.
‡‡ ::Urgently looking for reasons not to hate everything about renting Third House::
‡‡‡ Variously. The lunch part did not include the hellhounds. Siiiiiiiigh. Hellterror says, Put me in, coach. I can handle it. I’ll even play with that dumb rubber thing if it makes you happy.
§ Including non-eating hellhounds
§§ Also I think there’s a Pit and the Pendulum vibe and with every box you deposit in the space the walls move a little closer together.
§§§ There’s nothing the hellterror enjoys more than a nice towel shredding, so I can use the back-up
# We don’t need any hellterror help for breakages. Although she did take out the plate glass window of my ex-glass-fronted bookcase about a week ago. I spent hours sweeping, scrubbing and patting the floor for splinters. Also moaning. Moaning goes with this kind of work. The kitchen floor hasn’t been that clean in years.
## He probably needs a name. He will probably appear on these pages again. Also, he has two adorable spaniels. One of them wags her tail in her sleep.
I’m so glad it’s short Wednesday, I’m so tired I am in grave danger of falling off my chair.*
Also, I am in shock. Which is very tiring.
***MY BANK APOLOGISED.***
FURTHER TRUMPET FLOURISHES. IN FACT AN ENTIRE CONCERTO, INVOLVING SEVERAL ORGANS WITH FIFTY THOUSAND PIPES EACH AND A FEW OF THOSE HUGE JAPANESE TAIKO DRUMS THAT FEEL LIKE YOU’RE BEING PUNCHED IN THE CHEST WHEN SOMEONE THUMPS THEM.
It’s taken my bank nearly four months and they’ve still got both my name and my address wrong BUT NEVER MIND. THEY APOLOGISED. They’ve REFUNDED the substantial number and £££ of fines they charged me and have sent me copies of all the letters they wrote to all the people whose cheques bounced—including scary, credit-rating-ruining people like my credit card companies—saying it was THEIR FAULT. NOT MINE. THEIRS. THE BANK’S. THE BANK’S FAULT.
Good news. I can USE some good news.*** And I can continue to contemplate the goodness of this news tomorrow during the three and a half hours I am due to be in dentist from R’lyeh’s torture . . . I mean, chair. † I think you had better expect tomorrow night’s blog to be short too.††
* * *
* It was a bell-ringing night, one of those nights when there were only six of us so all of us had to ring all evening. You know retired people may still have some BRAIN left by the end of the day. . . .
Also my beloved Celtic-knotwork-pattern-cover cushion is going—has gone—to pieces. There is no security in this insecure world where things wear out. I am sure I am much unsteadier in my chair in the mews kitchen with my chair cushion in SHREDS,^ whether or not I just spent an hour and a half on the end of a bell-rope.^^ And I’m totally failing to get my head around replacing it. There are gazillions of cushions out there.
^ It disintegrated all by itself, with no help from hellterrors whatsoever.
^^ One of the other ringers, whom I would have said I had never met before, stared at me for a minute and said, I know you. I rang a wedding with you at Ditherington last year. You’re the knitter.
** Pity they can’t make an itsy-bitsy further error, move the decimal place over six or seven or eight places to the right and make me wealthy.^ Then I could not only keep Third House I could build a conservatory off the sitting-room.^^ I suppose, having noticed one error, they might notice this one too. No, wait . . . I pointed their previous error out. I had to point it out. Hmm.
^ And for those helpful people telling me if I’d only write this or that book/sequel I’d immediately become wealthy . . . in the first place *&^%$£”!!!!!! and the frelling horse you frelling rode in on. In theory this blog nonsense—and the Twitter nonsense, and the Facebook nonsense, and the public email address nonsense—is so that public people can have some direct contact with their private readers/fans/supporters. And vice versa. Which seems to me to be mostly a good idea: we’re all human beings first and last. But shouldn’t there be some FAINT responsibility in that vice versa-ing, for paying attention? Which is to say HOW MANY RATBLASTED TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY I ONLY WRITE WHAT I AM GIVEN TO WRITE? I’D BE ON SUNSHINE SEVENTEEN AND DAMAR THIRTY-TWO BY NOW IF I COULD.
And in the second place . . . SUNSHINE and Damar didn’t make me wealthy the first time. There’s no reason to think that a second or a third or twenty-seventh book would do any better. Remember that for every GAME OF THRONES there are 1,000,000,000 series that only did well enough to bully the poor sweating author to keep trying.
. . . an autographed book sale? I’m sure that the hell-hounds and -terror would cooperate to place ‘official’ pawprints.
Sure. The minute I finish the last frelling doodle from the now-ancient-history Bell Fund. Siiiiiiigh. . . .
^^ Have I mentioned that one of the knock-on effects of letting Third House is that I won’t have the little summerhouse as a greenhouse this winter? I have therefore, with Atlas’ aid, brought the grow-light to the cottage and hung it from one of the big ceiling beams in the already-small sitting room, and in cold weather we will have to have handbells at Niall’s because my sitting room will be full of PLANTS.
*** There are way too many alligators in my immediate vicinity. As the saying goes.
† On Halloween.
†† And apropos of nothing at all, any of you folk on this side of the Atlantic have experience with Lovefilm vs. Netflix?
Fiona was here again today—she was here one day last week on the same task—sorting and packing up backlist in the attic at Third House. Last week she was here on a day when the ME had me more or less nailed to some sofa or other with occasional totterings outside to allow hellcritters to stretch their legs and perform certain functions.* Today I was at least upright and mobile–and downstairs gazing despairingly at bookshelves full of other people’s books.
I’m getting Third House ready for rental. Yaay. Not.
I realise it’s not the end of the world. It’s not even not the end of the world as I know it. But it’s the end of a little piece of the world as I want to know it.
I’ve earned my living as a free lance writer for—yeep—nearly thirty years. But I’ve never been a best-seller** and I don’t write frelling fast enough. I managed to buy Third House during an uncharacteristic little flurry of getting out a book a year for about three years. For which I am devoutly grateful. At least I do own it.
But at the moment I can’t afford to own it. I didn’t have enough money to do a really thorough remodel; I went way over budget as it is to get the frelling weight-bearing, which is to say backlist-bearing, floor put in, because of the building regs about weight-bearing floors. And it turned out fine for someone who mainly wants space for lots and lots of books, but it’s not at all laid out for normal people with, you know, kids and families and things.*** So while I’ve been watching the bottom of my bank balance get closer and closer and plainer and plainer† I’ve also been wondering if it was even worth trying to let Third House, with its peculiar floor plan and paucity of bedrooms. Eventually I went round to our nice local realtor . . . and the answer is yes . . . just. By the time I’ve paid to have an assortment of small annoying problems scolded and told to pull their frelling socks up, frelling broadband installed, the (frelling) garden thumped into order†† and all that extra-frelling backlist and a few bits of furniture flung into storage . . . I’ll do very slightly better than break even . . . after about a year to earn back what I put into making it up to rentable standard.††† But I think it’s probably worth it to have someone else paying the shockingly unhilarious council tax on a small not-all-that-old house that happens to be inconveniently located in a quaint village downtown deemed a Conservation Area.
Meanwhile . . . storage will be slightly cheaper if there’s less stuff to store and if I do some of my own packing. Hence staring at my bookshelves and hence Fiona, bless her many, many times with yarn sales of extraordinary splendour and a satnav that is never wrong.
But I’m still not feeling exactly chirpy about the whole thing, so you’ll excuse me if I go to bed early with a good book. One of the ones I brought home with me from Third House. . . sniff. . . . ‡
* * *
* Days when the ME is bad it would be very nice if they were taller. I can rebalance myself delicately with fingers resting on an alert hellhound head. The hellterror, however, is probably roping my ankles together with her lead or using my knees as a rocket-launcher.^ It’s not that she can’t hurl herself six feet into the air after a squirrel, it’s that she can’t maintain it long enough for me to lean on her.
^ I was on the floor this evening being a hellterror-toy and Fiona said, are you aware that your right rear pocket is parting company with your jeans? Yes, I said, that’s because the hellterror sticks her hind feet in that pocket when I’m carrying her under that arm. And a good thing too, what she weighs.+
+ I had occasion to be carrying Chaos a few days ago. He weighs barely more than she does.# It’s just the long trailing legs make it harder to get him over a dog-unfriendly stile.
# Of course she eats, which might have something to do with it.
** Yes, I’ve been on the list a few times. But these things can be both mutable and evanescent. I’ve never been a best-seller like Ninety-Eight Shades of Chartreuse is a best-seller.
*** All three of our current houses together would be about half the floor space of the old house—and about twenty per cent of attics, outbuildings and garden. Granted that was a big house, and bigger than we needed. Still.
† Is it more distressing to have your monster super-global corporate bank jerking you around when you have a lot of money in it, or only a little? Discuss.
†† I hope my future tenants like roses.
†††This is not the wild American back of beyond, but hopelessly over-civilised southern English village society. Rose Manor wouldn’t get a booking in New Arcadia.^
^ But KES is going to make my fortune after all and then I can have Third House back.
‡ And I’m NEVER HAVING OVERNIGHT GUESTS AGAIN. The sofabed at the cottage isn’t going to have room to open any more, after the twelve more boxes of books imported from Third House. . . .
It has not been a good day. I overslept—which at least has the advantage that I got some sleep—but I was racing around tripping over a puppy very anxious to be helpful trying to catch up with myself and failing, of course, does anyone ever catch up?*, and one of my split-second decisions was to leave the GIGANTIC HOUSE SPIDER perched precariously on a skirting board near the front door—he was too big and he didn’t fit, and was having to extend some of his supernumerary limbs around the corner and grasp the front of the bookcase—and finish throwing the last six animals and twenty-two knapsacks in Wolfgang and get down to the mews before sunset.
Which means he’s still at the cottage. Somewhere. Waiting for me. Unless of course he’s found his beloved and they are experiencing marital bliss . . . somewhere. You don’t seem to find pairs of spiders so I’m ASSUMING I don’t have to worry about the happy couple(s) once they are. But it’s now definitively nighttime and by the time we all** get back to the cottage I’ll be tired and . . . I know it looks like a really dumb decision. But there’s the additional factoid that neither of my spider catchers are actually up to the job of autumn-sized house spiders, the ones that are as big as your hand. That Godzilla I posted photos of a couple of years ago is still a personal worst, but this time of year there are always several jolly little pony-sized arachnids that, like the cockroaches outside Charlie’s Coffeehouse, you can hear as they clatter across the lino’d*** floor. Ugggh. But I wonder what spider-catcher-inventors are thinking about when they design something big and strong enough to tackle a somewhat undernourished daddy-long-legs? I have never used the box one on anything bigger than my thumbnail because I dislike cutting legs off, even of spiders . . . and I’m probably not going to bother with a spider that small anyway—I’m a sort of mutable arachnophobe—and the box-catcher, while it was sold to me for spiders, is useful for wasps and Other Things That Sting.
I have been put off forever using the bristle-brush catcher, where you plop the business end of this bushy broom thing over your spider and then run the handle down toward it so the bristles close over it, TRAPPING IT SECURELY. Yes. Indeed. An autumn-sized spider says ‘hmm, indoor hedgerow, don’t like it’, bursts through the plastic bristles without breaking a sweat AND RUNS UP THE HANDLE TOWARD MY ARM. Exit screaming.† I may have told you this story before. The memory lingers.
. . . I thought this early story-arc of the hob was dead obvious. Dead obvious isn’t necessarily bad—see previous response: OF COURSE I’m going to feed a friendly hob—but it’s usually, erm, obvious. You must read too many engineering texts or something and your eye has got out for fiction.
Well, yes, looking back, it was obvious. **defensively** I’d just turned 70 the day before. I was rather shaken by the idea that my extended middle age is over. 70 is undeniably old.
I seem to have left a piece of my brain behind. But, hey, I’m 70; I have an excuse. Right?
I’m sorry! ::Grovels:: I meant to be teasing you. —It goes on being a problem, this communication thing, even after 1,000,000,000,000,000 years of evolution from space dust or sea-bottom slime or whatever††, and email and the internet have just super-extended it into eleventy-seven new dimensions. You get so used to talking with your fingers that you forget how many of the traditional social cues you’re not picking up.
Er . . . happy birthday? I had a friend commenting when she turned seventy several years ago that everyone was telling her that ‘seventy is the new fifty’. No it isn’t, she said. That would make sixty the new forty, and I can vouch that sixty is not forty, new or otherwise.
. . . Best insomnia cure for Christians: Read Leviticus.
::Shudder:: Not for me. Leviticus is too full of horrors. You’re supposed to do what because of what? Noooooooo. Not to mention killing all those poor critters and splashing their blood around.†††
I cook for my home group regularly, and we have some people with very restrictive diets. I would always rather know as much as possible as soon as possible (within limits of what they are comfortable telling me, of course). For me, hospitality is a big deal. So if someone does have a limitation and they don’t tell me, I always feel bad that I wasn’t allowed to provide them what I provided everyone else with (or at least the equivalent). It makes my hospitality feel incomplete. I would say I do feel like you would be ministering to me by telling me because it would relieve me of the guilt I would feel for being inconsiderate of someone else’s needs, even if it was unintentional. . . .
Sure. And I have emailed the organiser. But I don’t like eating in a group and I resent being forced to do so. I wouldn’t join a home group that required me to accept the food hospitality of the organizer as part of the regular meetings: if this Alpha course began every meeting, instead of just the first one, with a group meal, I wouldn’t sign up. Hospitality, and providing for your guests, is your big deal. What if one of your guests has a big deal of being able to eat in private without someone’s need to be hospitable looming over them?
Diane in MN
. . . hellhounds are, erm, undesirably reactive to rabbit and venison and they won’t eat any of the other within-my-price-range options.
If you haven’t already tried it, you might look at turkey as an alternative to chicken. The taste is similar but the proteins are different (I was allergic to chicken, but not to turkey), and if it’s a new food they might not be sensitive to it. That’s assuming turkey is as commonplace in your markets as it is here, of course.
Turkey is available over here at Christmas, at £1,000,000,000 per carat. If there are other turkey options I haven’t found them, although I admit my google-fu is poor. I’ve had other Americans suggest turkey—and duck, which is nearly as expensive although available most of the year in case anyone wins the lottery—and I’ve tried the dog-food turkey and duck, either 100% or at least grain-free, and hellhounds, of course, won’t touch it. Fortunately Pav will so all those frelling tins aren’t going to be wasted.
. . . I adore Bendicks Bittermints, they are not thin and squidgy but thick and solid with a really intense mint hit.
Yes, I remember those. Before I discovered G&B, and before I was clobbered by the ME, I got through a lot of Bendicks Bittermints which are, as you say, excellent. But the ME comes with a lorryload of chemical/environmental sensitivities/intolerances as well as the straightforward food issues and I’m pretty paranoid about organic. And Bendicks, unfortunately, is not organic. I admit that I wonder what kind of corners G&B may be cutting behind their behemoth corporate front, now they’re no longer independent. And do things like disguise inferior new product in a superior old product’s packaging.
Yeah, I’ve been VERY lactose intolerant for about a year now, and the thing that I hate most is how difficult it makes communal food (especially dessert). My church is making efforts to be better about labeling . . . but mostly in the direction of being accommodating to people with gluten sensitivities. . . .
Food allergies and intolerances are so common now—and commonly known about—it amazes me, not in a good way, how slow how many providers of public or communal food, including restaurants, are to respond in any useful way. One of the things that used to make me crazy when I first moved over here is that any vegetarian option WAS UP TO ITS ARMPITS IN CHEESE. It’s like the entire country had got stuck in the early Moosewood Cookbook stage. It’s better now, but it’s still not uncommon to find the one ::trumpet fanfare:: vegetarian option on a restaurant menu to be three kinds of LOCALLY SOURCED!!!! cheese artfully woven through some risotto rice. And if you’re dairy- tomato/potato/eggplant/etc- and gluten-intolerant HAVE A NICE LIFE. Somewhere else. If you can. Fortunately I do—and can—eat meat‡, or I’d’ve starved to death years ago.
Restaurants are fun, too. Last night, for example, I found myself dragged along to an Italian place. And it’s not that I don’t like Italian food. But ALL ITALIAN FOOD IS BETTER WITH CHEESE. . . . If anyone has suggestions for what Italian food I should be ordering that would still be interesting without cheese or milk, I’m open to ideas.
Okay, I may be able to help here. Back in the days when I was only lactose intolerant I discovered harlot’s sauce. Most Italian restaurants have it and I never had a bad one—famous last words I daresay. I can’t immediately find my recipe since it’s been retired and while I’m used to being dairy-free I still suffer lingering sulkiness about being tomato-free, but this one looks like the right stuff:
* * *
* Don’t answer that
** The thirty-seven animals and ninety-eight knapsacks
*** We’re not supposed to call it lino any more. Lino is scruffy and low-class. I think it’s now vinyl. I have a very nice floor, whatever it calls itself, except for the muddy spider footprints. The hellcritters and I all wipe our feet carefully. Yes.
† Pav is extremely fond of the bristle-brush spider-catcher, although not for the use for which it was intended.
†† And the hand of God, but in one of his obscurer moments. Although on a bad day I think the entire Bible is one long, gruesomely over-extended obscurer moment.
††† Definitely an obscurer moment.
‡ AND LOTS AND LOTS OF (mostly raw) VEGETABLES AND FRUIT. I’m so Paleo. I’m probably healthy as **** and will live forever.^
^ Well, if I am healthy as **** it’s nice idea. . . .