I got to bed too late.* I had Raphael coming in the morning so I had to get out of bed before the middle of the afternoon.**
I had a list for Raphael. I always have a list.
There is apparently no way to turn OFF the wretched monster photos that have taken over everyone’s Twitter feed. I’ll click on the photos I want to see, you know? Stop frelling trying to make clawing my way through the last twenty-four hours even more of a ratbag.***
There is apparently no way to tell Windows 7 NO I FRELLING DO NOT WANT TO HANG AROUND ANOTHER TWENTY MINUTES WHILE YOU DO A FRELLING UPDATE, I WANT TO CLOSE DOWN, PUT MY LAPTOP IN MY KNAPSACK AND GO HOME. You could on XP. You could tell it, no, later, and it said, okay, you’re the boss, and shut down.
My email is a NIGHTMARE and there isn’t much Raphael can do about it.† The settings all sit there sniggering behind their half-eaten address books and whimsical spam filters saying, We’re all optimally configured! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
When I finally got the poor patient hellhounds out†† there was not one but two off lead dogs in the churchyard, being ignored by two different irresponsible humanoid-shaped ratbags. And the middle of town was jammed solid††† because Father Bloody Christmas had arrived and his grotto was open for business.
Maybe I’ll go to bed what passes for me as early with a good book or twelve. Maybe I’ll even sleep. That would make a change.
* * *
* Duuh. In this case partly because I had loaded up my FABULOUS NEW EFFECTIVELY-IF-NOT-LITERALLY WIRELESS PRINTER with second-side paper and ran off a lot of knitting patterns.^ And when I pulled them out, having enjoyed the sound of a printer printing—no pings, no dings, no mysterious stoppages, no flashing lights, no screaming. Just printing—I discovered that my new printer wants paper loaded with the already used side up. Rather than down. Oh. My last several printers have wanted one-sided paper loaded BLANK side UP.
There was screaming after all.
And of course I had to do it all over again right then. It couldn’t wait till morning^^. A dozen knitting patterns I may never get to at all and certainly not any time soon since I have . . . um . . . several projects on needles already. BUT I HAD TO PRINT THEM OFF LAST NIGHT. YES.
^ Can some clever knitter person tell me if I could knit these on circular needles rather than DPNs? http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/f163-cleckheaton-country-silk-fingerless-gloves
I don’t do circulars+ but I really REALLY don’t do DPNs. Just looking at them makes me think of deep puncture wounds and the TOTAL FAILURE I was at cat’s-cradle.
+ Have I told you this story? After I started my big plain square JUST KEEP KNITTING winter scarf out of mind-blowingly gorgeous wool and silk yarn on circulars, thinking that it would be easier to manage that way and in less danger of spilling off too-short needles—broomstick-length needles don’t fit in your knapsack, and they probably won’t let you on public transport or in the bell tower where you’re a hazard to the already somewhat risky flying ropes—AND INSTEAD the wretched rows jammed every time they had to come back off the cable again and onto the working needle tips. The needle tips also needed screwing back on every time I got the fabric shoved onto the cable again. AND THEN, ONE DAY, ONE OF THE NEEDLE TIPS UNSCREWED ANYWAY. MID ROW. KNITTING ALL OVER THE LANDSCAPE. There was screaming.
I gave up circulars forever that day.# Interchangeable ones anyway. I still have a few basic bamboo-and-plastic fixed ones that Fiona gave me early on, saying to me in soothing tones that I would like circulars once I’d tried them. HA. HA. I’m sure the Romans told the Christians that the lions they were about to throw them to were pussycats really. But I could try knitting a glove on fixed circulars. You only cast on forty stitches, instead of a hundred and forty.## And I’d quite like to try this seamless deal.
The interchangeables came as a Yaaay! You SUBSCRIBED!### bonus from a knitting magazine. Moral: don’t subscribe to knitting magazines.
# And yes, I lost the two and a half or so inches of knitting I’d managed to wrench out of those ratblasted needles. Which is when I found out that my beautiful yarn doesn’t rip back very well.
^^ Or, you know, afternoon.
** I sent him a text at umph-plus o’clock asking him if he could please Not Be Early. I hope he turns his phone off when he goes to bed. Although he has three little kids: he may never sleep at all. Nadia has only two little kids and she never sleeps at all.
*** On the other hand I asked Twitter if there was a programme that would let me have more than one Twitter account open simultaneously and lovely Twitter people answered and I am now the more or less proud owner of a copy of Tweetdeck, which is already massively to be preferred in all the ways I can figure out.
Speaking of the kindness of computer nerd strangers, has anyone reading this ever had their Word 7 randomly turn blocks of text into italic? IT DRIVES ME FRELLING BANANACAKES. ALSO CREAM PIES. AND SOME COCONUT ONES WHILE WE’RE AT IT. COCONUT IS RELIABLY BONKERS. Sometimes it won’t turn off again: you highlight it, click, and it judders sideways and back and . . . stays italic. Sometimes it turns normal again as soon as you highlight it. Sometimes this block goes normal and then you flick up a page and discover a different block of text has gone italic. You tend to need a biggish block of text to set off whatever this is: it doesn’t happen (yet) to individual blog entries, but it’s really REALLY bad with KES, which I keep in files of a dozen or so eps per, because single words of italic seem to set off the gremlin and there’s kind of a lot of italic in KES.^
Anyone else seen this? Raphael looks at me warily when I tell him about it since (of course) I’ve never managed to reproduce it for him.
^ For some reason.
† Except maybe help me look at real estate ads for houses in areas with better broadband.
†† They don’t want to use the courtyard any more, even if they’re DESPERATE. WE’RE NOT THAT DESPERATE, they say, crossing their legs harder. The courtyard now belongs to the hellterror.
And, speaking of things going wrong, Raphael showed up before she was finished with her breakfast kong. By the time she is finished, she, her bedding, the crate and the kong are METICULOUSLY FREE OF ANY SUBATOMIC PARTICLE OF FOOD. But it’s a little messy on the journey. I don’t like keeping her crated when there are Exciting Visitors, it doesn’t seem to me fair, so I got her out and clutched her frantically to my bosom as I let Raphael in and shooed him (and hellhounds) hastily upstairs. I didn’t quite need a bath by the time I shut her back up with the remains of her breakfast. Quite.
Hellterror has had a good day however. After poor Raphael finally left to go attend to some normal, corporate client, we all went out to Warm Upford to put petrol in Wolfgang, and had a sprint around an empty sheep field before we came home. Hellterror doesn’t get out to deep country all that often and she was ECSTATIC. And I have two dislocated shoulders. One from an ecstatic hellterror, and one from two hellhounds trying to elude the ecstatic hellterror.^
^ The next field over was not empty so I didn’t dare let them off lead to sort it out among themselves.
††† Mind you this is easy to do in a town this size
I was running late this morning. Well. So surprising. Not. And I came blasting into the courtyard at the mews about mid-afternoon, didn’t quite spurt gravel into West Sussex as I spun Wolfgang into his corner, flung open the door and . . . almost stepped in a Gigantic Pile of Dog Crap.
I attained orbit a whole lot faster than those slow rockety things from Cape Canaveral ever did. ARRRRRRRGH.
Among other things I get so frelling tired of feeling that I’m permanently bent over in a posture of abject apology for having dogs at all.* And I believe there aren’t any full-time dogs at the mews/Big Pink Blot—which is run as a kind of Grangerford/Shepherdson cooperative—I think dogs may not be allowed in the articles of whatsit. But there’s at least one other regular canine visitor . . . whom I’ve yet to see on a lead . . .
And of course everyone around here gives me the hairy eyeball, because our multi-legged (and hairy) comings and goings are extremely conspicuous. I PICK UP AFTER MY HELLCRITTERS. AND THEY’RE NEVER, EVER OFF LEAD EXCEPT UNDER MY [EXTREMELY HAIRY] EYEBALL IMMEDIATELY OUTSIDE THE FRONT DOOR FOR A PEE BEFORE THEY GET BACK IN THE CAR.
People are slime. Make a note.**
On the other hand I had a rush of blood to the head and had a look at bobs and singles for St Clements minor and Colin and Niall and I had an Amusing Time this evening trying to ring touches of something besides plain bob minor. Of course Colin had to louse this up by splicing in plain courses of plain bob when I’m trying to grapple with the essential horror of ringing any bobs and singles on handbells. I don’t need any additional abominations of random courses, however plain, of some other frelling method. I am meanwhile welded to the St Clements trebles*** till further notice.
Yes. One might ask “Where is Kes going to sleep? Not even Cademon can guard against such antics as these!”
SLEEP? You think anyone is thinking of SLEEP in current circumstances?†
And WHERE is she? Is this really taking place in a house she rents? In the same world as the motel and the truck? Really?
Oh, now, let’s not get all literal here. Is Sunnydale any less Sunnydale just because the hellmouth happens to yawn evilly on a corner near you?
I also wouldn’t count on Merry being . . . normal.
There’s a corpse on the floor and a man speaking High Forsoothly, but I, like Kes, am most immediately concerned about bloodstains on her books.
Yep. Under stress we revert to type. Me too.
Oh wait, why didn’t we see Sid next to the body? Did she move out of the way in time? Last thing from last week was Sid biting the shadowy attacker’s arm, and now our shadowy attacker is bleeding all over the floor, dead.
No, no, no, no. Not to worry. This is a McKinley story, right? Can you possibly imagine that I would let anything dreadful happen to Sid? If I would defy the Story Council to give Kes a dressing-gown if she wasn’t wearing a nightgown, do you really think I’d let them do anything nasty to Sid?
Although this is another example of the weirdness of tiny-chunk serials. You’ll see Sid again this Saturday. I couldn’t get her and the books into last Saturday’s.
Watermelon Shoulders really isn’t terribly good at explaining, is he?
Well, High Forsoothly is very bad for the mental processes. Think of all the drivel Gandalf could spout when he reverted to Ancient Mage mode.
Dear me… poor Kes. If she knows how much blood is in the human body, she’s doubtless well aware of what it means when your sword has a name.
Yep. After all she writes that stuff.
And what a place to stop! “We have need of thee”!? … Can’t wait for Saturday!
Kes, on the other hand, would be very grateful to hide under the bed. If she had a bed to hide under.
Diane in MN
doing a serial in tiny chunks like this
No problem with tiny chunks. Big problem with tiny MEMORY!
Yes. Now try and imagine what it’s like being the author with a tiny memory. No—wait—no—wasn’t it urglfwiddy in ep 4012? Didn’t the attack mushrooms eat Gelasio’s new inamorata? Was Serena’s to-die-for crumble pear, plum, peach or rambutan?
There will probably be quite a lot of tidying-up to be done for the hard-copy version . . .
This is, of course, not the author’s fault. But I am quite looking forward to some future date when Kes will be available in one BIG chunk
. . . toward that BIG chunk we are ALL looking forward to.††
I’ll also just add here that while forum members don’t rank in the millions or anything, if I posted a birthday KES for every forum member who had a birthday . . . I WOULD BE VERY BUSY WRITING KES.
Helpful comment: No matter how many millions of readers you get, you’d still only have 365 KES episodes to write.
Oh, another frelling literalist. In the first place there are weird odds and statistics about people’s birthdays: http://www.theguardian.com/notesandqueries/query/0,5753,-22978,00.html
Never mind the logic of how you get there, twenty-three people doesn’t seem anything like enough to produce two with the same birthday. These odds however were made vivid to me in junior-high chemistry [sic] and there weren’t even quite twenty-three of us in that class—but another girl and I had the same birthday. So what’s the other end of that—how many forum members would we need to produce birthdays EVERY DAY of the year? And if there are more than one birthday person on a given day, will one episode satisfy them? Or if person x got an episode this year, would person y—with the same birthday—expect their episode that day the next year?
I prefer to reject the whole birthday-ep notion unilaterally. It’s so much easier. For me.
1. I am going to start calling someone, anyone, really, “Watermelon Shoulders”, cause it cracks me up.
Assuming that you will apply this to someone whose physique includes large powerful shoulders I hope you will tactfully ascertain in advance if the cognomen will be appreciated in a positive manner.
2. I am not sure whether to be glad or upset that I will never have strange apparitions in my house as I have not one, but two techies.
I’d go for grateful. Kes is not going to be having a good time for a while.
3. I am saying this quietly as to not get hurt, while I love Kes, I just recently reread Pegasus and the ending is a killer and I would really love to read Pegasus II. So please, Robin, please, keep writing both!
Hey. I want to keep eating. I have a desire so overwhelming to read PEG II—and PEG III—in their perfect, finished entirety that your mere readerly longing is comparatively speaking a rose petal drifting in the bottomless ravine.
* * *
* Let alone three dogs, which anyone but Southdowner might find excessive.
** Pav took against someone for the first time in weeks the other day. This jerk has three or four working-hunter type dogs, spaniels.^ Because he is a working-hunter type bloke he is clearly superior to the rest of us with our wispy pet dogs, and while his dogs do obey him, they are always off lead and he clearly doesn’t feel any great need to curtail their fun in terrorising the riff-raff. His big male thug doesn’t like my hellhounds, and they return the sentiment.
I saw this delightful crew coming toward us and I picked Pav up. I don’t need the hassle and she doesn’t need to be intimidated by testosterone-poisoned idiots. The human jerk sauntered up to me and said, in as sneering a tone as humanly possible, Are we frightened? I said in as neutral a tone as possible, There are rather a lot of you.
I think it was probably because he stank of ciggies, and Pav is passionately anti-smoking^^, but it may have been that I didn’t sound as neutral as I wanted to. But she went ballistic, which Jerkface, fortunately, found amusing. He sauntered off . . . and I staggered, with my ballistic bullie, to the nearest bench^^^, where we sat for a long time before she finally morphed back into my Pav and we could continue our hurtle. Meanwhile we’d lost the last of the daylight. I think Parliament might pass a law ordering more daylight in December. Christmas is fine# but I want daylight.
^ In his case this is definitely too many.
^^ Passionately enough I wonder if something happened with a cigarette-stinking human when I wasn’t around.
^^^ This only works if your exploding critter weighs under thirty-five pounds. I’m glad I don’t have to try and Hold a . . . Great Dane, say.
# Sort of. Christmas, for this still-new Christian, starts the countdown to Easter again. I know I got through Easter last year—and I know about the resurrection, thank you—but it still scares the frzzlmp out of me.
*** In the first big fat tier of ordinary methods, the treble only goes straight out to the back and straight down to the front again with none of the jiggy bits that make inside ringing so . . . entertaining. So if you’re ringing the one-two on handbells, the amount of mayhem that bobs and singles can cause is limited because only the two is affected; the one just keeps on truckin’. It’s still bad enough that the two goes doolally, because that changes the relationship between your two bells.
† Granted that the author/recorder’s difficulties with the whole concept of sleep may be muddying the ground here. OH LOOK. AN INARGUABLE REASON NOT TO BE ABLE TO SLEEP. MODIFIED RAPTURE.
†† Well, I hope many of us are looking forward to. Please.^
^ See: keep eating.
I hv hellterror in lap that is 2 say sharing chair WHICH IS NOT BIG ENUF 4 BOTH OF US & I am so uncomfortbl I cld die
* * *
. . . I may be crippled for life. No, I think the blood is beginning to flow in the right direction(s) again. When I’ve thought ahead I’ve brought the piano stool in and set it next to my chair so she has something to spill onto and I get to keep my butt ON THE CHAIR. She’s too small and square to have useful staying-on-chair inertia: if she slides she’s gone. I am long and lanky and quite a bit of me can hang off something like a chair quite securely . . . barring the intense pain this causes. THE THINGS WE DO FOR OUR CRITTERS. I still haven’t got the lying-together-in-a-heap system right; the hellhounds think the sofa is theirs and while I CAN trap her in such a manner that she is prevented from molesting them it’s not like I can lie there enjoying my book while I’m on constant Suppression Alert not to mention crisping slightly under the burning accusatory glare from the two pairs of hellhound eyes.* Arrrrgh. Hellterror laptime at the cottage is even more death defying—for both of us. I’m usually on a stool, a, what’s more tall stool, and she has to cling to me like a young monkey grasping its treetop-swinging mum. She’s fine with this.** Me, not so much.
She is now the size she should remain and likes laps. I’d better figure something out.
I was reading your author website today, Robin, when I was supposed to be doing something else, and I loved the comment about characters in LOTR speaking “High Forsoothly.”
It’s not original I’m afraid. It’s been around quite a while; I can’t remember where I first read/heard it—I assume I already didn’t remember when I was writing that bit and so didn’t identify it there?—although it was in a Tolkien context. But I bagged it instantly and have used it ever since. Kes too. Kes was also crucially shaped by reading LOTR young but the twenty-year difference in Kes’ and my ages*** means that when she got to the end of RETURN OF THE KING she had other options than going back to page one of FELLOWSHIP.† You may have noticed she seems to have read some McKinley.
Although it strains my patience to get the chapters only once a week, I like the opportunity to talk back to the author at the end of each one. I’ve often wanted to do that.
‘Talk back’ used, perhaps, advisedly.†† Although may I just offer my forum a compliment here: thank you all for being so polite.††† Which means I get to enjoy the process too.‡ I hope it’s not just that my mods’ delete fingers are smokin’ hot. But along with merely relishing giving you a hard time—by definition, you know: it’s still all about turning pages, even when the pages are virtual and only happen once a week—I’m fascinated by what all of you pick up and what you don’t, or at least what you don’t feel is worth commenting on.
I have to wonder if Sid will be curious enough to taste the new gooey floor covering… And then how poor Kes will react to that.
Probably not. In the first place Sid is also going to be busy and in the second place . . . not all dogs find the same truly disgusting substances delightful, and sighthounds are even more bonkers than the usual run [sic] of canine peculiarity. This is an occasion where I can’t see that, in this case, Sid licking the floor is going to further the plot . . . and therefore I get to say it doesn’t happen. The Story Council grants me these small decisions now and then to keep me cheerful and writing.
Given that Kes has already seen one face she overtly recognized – I am also wondering how intertwined the current dimensional meld is with her writing. And if they are at all – which is the chicken, and which the egg? Does she think these people and places, therefore they are? Or does she write them because they already exist, and it is the knowledge of them that slips through dimensional cracks into her skull?
Remember that I say (a) there’s a crack in my skull where the stories come through (b) the stories exist, I don’t make them up, I only write them down, and never well enough and (c) . . . I am often in the position of trying to write them down by being there, wherever there is, frantically waving my notebook and pen‡‡ in the air and saying Wait! Wait for me!, and . . . that where I am (wherever it is) is very, very vivid.
Don’t forget the Hob! I’m sure his dinner counts for something!
Can’t wait for her horse to show up.
I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY I HAVE ALL THESE HORSE CRAZIES ON MY BLOG. I CAN’T IMAGINE.
Speaking of names, I’m expecting that we’ll finally find out Mr. W.Shoulder’s ????
Yes. But not next Saturday. Or even the Saturday after that. Or . . .
I’m still asking Santa-Robin for an additional episode at Christmas…I’ve been a good girl, I promise
I’ll think about it. I promise NOTHING.
*gnash gnash gnash*
Why, thank you.
WHERE DO I EVEN BEGIN TO COMMENT ON THAT?!
Wherever you like.
Okay, well, at the beginning, I suppose.
Sounds like a plan.
I bet Kes is glad she doesn’t sleep in the altogether – a nightgown is bad enough in this situation, but stark raving naked would be so much worse.
In such an extremity if the Story Council didn’t allow me to throw her a dressing-gown I would have done it anyway.
. . . I love how Kes is so focused on the sheer quantity of blood, like any normal person would be, but so significantly unlike most unwitting hero/ines in 95.8% of fiction.
Thank you. Certainly there are too many supposedly ordinary characters who are not freaked out by—er—calamitous events. Or so I as reader feel. This is what I was talking about last night: secrets to writing plausible fiction, including fantasy fiction: how would you feel if, etc. Stop and frelling THINK about it. As someone who’s been writing stories for over half a century (eeeeeep) I do this automatically—but I also sometimes STOP and try and make sure I’m paying enough attention to the ordinary-person-in-extraordinary-situation aspect.
The blood almost becomes a featured character in this little episode . . .
Not letting the reader forget about it, pulling one further into that sense of actually being there . . .
Oh good. That’s the idea.
. . . Same with the way Kes’s mind keeps jumping around to random inconsequentials (floor cleaning, security deposit, HA).
Which is often what you do when you’re freaked out by something, isn’t it? Well, it’s often what I do. HELP. I’M OUT OF CONTROL. And so you/I scrabble for little bits of things to have opinions about. ‡‡‡
. . . I can’t stand not knowing who the “we” is WS keeps mentioning. Do we get to meet them in the next ep? Do we, do we, huh? Do we, huh, huh?
NEXT ep? No way. Take a few deep breaths and make yourself some nice hot chocolate.
I’m guessing Kes’s dinner plans for the following day are shot now, huh?
Shot? Not at all. Why would they be? In the first place, tomorrow night is a long way away§ and in the second place . . . um . . . Hayley has already been surprising, hasn’t she?
* * *
* On rare occasions I do find them all three in the hellhound bed—either here or at the cottage—but she usually gets too excited at her own (nearly) unprecedented success and they roll their eyes and turf her out.^
^ Which reminds me of the New Dog Bed photo essay I keep meaning to organise. . . .
** Most dogs, in my experience, are more than happy to put their paws on your shoulders or even around your neck, probably the better to lick your face, but in whatever friendly companionable manner. I’m not used to a dog, especially something whose legs are only about three inches long, who without prompting puts her forelegs around your body and hugs you.^
^ Although she’s probably destroying the thighs of your jeans with her hind legs at the same time. This is not fear, mind you, this is, Hey! We’re having FUN! I think I told you, my first official Street Pastor night, I realised that the clean jeans I had put on just before coming out, the clean dog-hair-muddy-pawprints-and-dog-food-fleck-free jeans, were pretty tatty. I apologised to Fearless Leader and said I’d do better next time. Next time, which is to say last Friday, I discovered I HAVEN’T GOT any tough denim jeans that aren’t tatty any more. I have some lightweight ones . . . but the ones that will withstand a hard (cold) night on the town or a hellterror all look like they’ve done more hellterror-withstanding than is good for them.
*** Which is going to keep stretching alarmingly in real time. I was approaching my sixtieth birthday when I started KES and while she still is approaching her fortieth birthday I’ve turned sixty-one. Once I’ve got her settled I hope I can SKIP FORWARD a bit. I have plans for her fortieth birthday and I don’t want to die of extreme old age before she’s paid her second month’s rent on Rose Manor.
† Or THE HOBBIT, but I don’t think I’ve read that as many as half the number of times I’ve read LOTR. ^
^ That’s still quite a few.
†† YOU DID WHAT? SHE’S WHAT? IT’S WHAT? Blondviolinist covered this well.
††† . . . mostly.
‡ . . . MOSTLY.
‡‡ Or, lately, possibly iPad. Although if I’m going to go wandering multi-dimensionally I should buy a second battery in case the local power source is incompatible.
‡‡‡ Not, perhaps, wholly unlike a hellterror scrabbling to stay in a lap.
§ Especially in terms of likely number of eps. Gah.
YAAAAAAAH. I got to bed at . . . a little short of 7 am Friday night/Saturday morning.* The rest of the weekend is a bit of a blur. I’ve kind of lost track of when daylight happens, it is so easy to mislay this time of year.** Meanwhile I’ve been playing phone tag with my removal man about getting the big stuff from Third House that Atlas and I can’t shift in his trailer up to the storage warehouse place; I missed Mr Removal Man on Friday and assumed that was it till Monday, but I got a phone message from him today that I picked up on my way out the door to go to church, arrrgh arrrgh arrrgh arrrgh arrrgh . . . phoned him as requested when I got home again*** AND HE WANTS TO COME TOMORROW AFTERNOON. I HAVE A FRELLING VOICE LESSON MONDAY AFTERNOON. EXCEPT TOMORROW I’M HAVING IT EARLY. VERY EARLY.† AND THEN I HAVE TO COME HOME AND DEAL WITH REMOVAL MEN?††
I need to sing††† and then go to bed. Fast.
* * *
* It was a slightly odd night out on the street.^ I would have put it down to the fact that it was only my second official night and I still don’t have a clue, but several of the others on the team, including Fearless Leader, mentioned it, that there was a restless unease in the (cold) air that was unusual. I was home by four a.m. but the adrenaline aftermath was bad; the only two at all really tricky incidents were near the end of our watch, and I was actually engaged in one of them—yeeeeeeeep—and came out of it having done the right thing but jangling. And . . . it’s going to take me a while to get used to seeing real live very drunk and/or drugged up people doing the kinds of things real live very drunk and/or drugged up people do, both the hostile and the happy, and also the mere absolutely absolutely legless. It happens on TV. It doesn’t happen, you know, here. Oh yes it does.
^ Although my HEATED WAISTCOAT worked brilliantly, I only turned it on after the break. Ah yes, the break, during which the weather apparently yanks the rug out from under the temperature which, obviously, plunges dramatically, like a keystone kop engaging with a banana skin. So when you come outside again, full of hot tea and a warm glow of self-satisfaction+, it’s like walking into the Yukon in January. I noticed this last time. I think we must snap a trip wire or something and the ice gods all leap to their feet and shout NOW!, and then bang their icicles of office together in solidarity before dashing out to do their worst.
Anyway. I didn’t turn my waistcoat on till after the break when I figured I’d need it worse and it did brilliantly. Except that it was so brilliant that I had it turned up only a third of the way . . . and it was dead in three hours. It’s supposed to last up to six hours depending on how high you set it, and it only lasted for three at one third power?? I may ask the seller a polite question.
I have a set of neoprene toe-socks—they only cover the front half of your foot, which is clever, because your feet don’t sweat that way—that were sent to me by a very nice person++ and I decided to use them Friday night. Another couple of degrees in the wrong direction and I’m changing over to the heated socks, but they worked a treat this time—while I was moving, tramping those mean streets and trying to look like I had the faintest idea what I was doing.+++ What’s interesting is that they don’t work a FILBERT sitting still in the monks’ chapel.++++ Next Saturday night prayer with the monks: heated socks.
+ I’m doing WHAT? And it’s WHAT time of night/morning?
++ You Know Who You Are
+++ Although I’ve now heard my more experienced colleagues answer that—er—diabolical question, Street Pastors? What are you?, often enough that I’m beginning to stop hyperventilating about what I’ll say# the first time someone asks me this in a way I can’t hastily pass on to one of said more experienced colleagues. One of our first training lectures had us trying to come up with an answer and . . . none of us covered ourselves with glory.
I haven’t entirely stopped hyperventilating. But I’m hyperventilating less. But there is also the first time I’m going to have to PRAY ALOUD to worry about. Noooooooooooooo. Usually you can give prayer requests to the Prayer Pastors back at base, it’s what they’re for. But occasionally someone you’ve been talking to asks you to pray for/with them, right there. Right now. Eeeeeep. I’m still in the early hyperventilating stage about praying out loud. I tell myself that I don’t radiate the kind of centredness and authority that would inspire anyone to ask me to pray over them. Reasons Not to Acquire Authority. I wouldn’t mind a little centredness though.
++++ The monks’ chapel is sooooooo cooooooold. By the time I’ve sat there an hour, muffled up in my heavy winter kit and a blanket, in contemplation,# when the abbot finally does his rapping thing and we’re all supposed to climb to our feet . . . I can’t. Although trying to find my way out of my excellent, steadfast blanket does not assist this awkward process.
# Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, I’m so cold, Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, I’m so cold. . . .
** Three weeks till the shortest day and then we start climbing back OUT of this pit.
*** And note that Peter is away till tomorrow afternoon so I’m having to do things like steam my own broccoli and cut up my own carrots.^
^ And Pav’s. Very fond of a nice carrot, is Pav.
† Way too frelling early. Just by the way. For someone who doesn’t expect to speak in complete sentences till after noon. Let alone frelling Italian complete sentences. The things one does just because one’s voice teacher is now a slave to the school schedule.
†† Hellcritters aren’t going to like it either. Hellhounds, who are in the 90 mile an hour couch potato category after all, are somewhat placated by Rides in the Car with the Hellgoddess but Pav eventually gets bored with yet another kong and wants to climb the walls and practise her trapeze artist routines for a while.
††† I’ve been having a fabulous time with the [Song of the] Nightclub Proprietress this week. Who is at least in English. For better or worse.
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.