Have I told you I’ve gone back into therapy because I Am Not Coping with Reality Very Well Right Now?* I went in for an assessment a while ago but it took them some time to find a slot for me.** I’ve seen Metis a few times now and like her—if ‘like’ is quite the word you want to apply to your shrink—and have some hope that she’ll crack me open like whacking off the top of your soft-boiled egg with an egg-spoon.*** But it’s still early days. Yesterday she taught me a relaxation technique. Chiefly it served to demonstrate that I do not relax. Nadia could have told her this. Sigh.†
But weekly therapy meetings are one more thing on the schedule. And in the last fortnight I seem also to have been to three concerts†† and not merely done my standard weekly Sam duty but the frelling occasional-required long overnight duty which reduces you to a little pile of sticky ashes even if you’re healthy††† plus picking up an extra (late, not everyone’s favourite time of day for some reason) duty when someone went down sick at the last minute.‡
And of course there’s still monks. And singing.‡‡ And the hellmob. And the garden, which is booming into early summer. And bell ringing, although tower ringing has taken a hit the last fortnight due to all the other excitements. But handbells . . . it’s Friday. There were handbells.‡‡‡
* * *
* I’m an American, we believe in therapy. And my best friend is a New Yorker and everyone in Manhattan is in therapy, it’s a civic ordinance. You want to live there, you need to sign up with a therapist before you try to find a place to live. Your rental agreement or your mortgage application will have a query on it something like ‘Are you currently actively engaged in seeking self-development by way of a professional relationship with a psychotherapist whose name appears on this year’s list of Persons Licensed to Charge More Than $1000 an Hour which you gladly disburse for the Privilege of Discovering What a Hopeless Dolt You Are?’ You need to be able to fill in the ‘yes’ box. Residents of the Tri-State Area are given a tax rebate for being in therapy, although it doesn’t run to $4000 a month. Hey, what do you want, healthy, well nourished children and a car that runs^ or greater self awareness?^^
^ All the festering DRIVING involved in my proliferating life-enrichment programmes is a pain. It’s worth it but IT IS A PAIN. And while I’m both a careful and a law-abiding driver I do kind of yell a lot. I had a Classic Robin Moment on my way to my last voice lesson. I was late, of course, because I’m always late, and I got stuck behind this moron going thirty-five miles an hour in a SIXTY MILE AN HOUR ZONE. I was not doing my singing voice any good in my description of his heritage and his likely future. Then we hit town—I’ve tried going the back way and all that happens is that I get stuck behind tractors, and that doesn’t do my singing voice or my blood pressure any favours either—and the slow wiggly main road was made even slower and wigglier by the plethora of frelling LORRIES parked on it while they unloaded shoes and sausages and hammers and mattresses into all the frelling shops. So you and your soon to be overheating car are ducking back and forth from one single lane to the other, depending on where the latest lorry is parked and you are getting later and later for your voice lesson and CRANKIER AND CRANKIER. Now, despite my malevolent views of other drivers, I’m quite the—ahem!—Samaritan about letting other drivers in, especially in a situation like this one where we’re all suffering. Well I’d got stuck behind the final lorry and no one was letting me into the other lane. Guess who finally did. Yep. Thirty Five Miles an Hour in a Sixty Mile an Hour Zone Man. I waved gratefully but I hope he doesn’t lip-read.
^^ Note that Metis’ practise does not charge £646 an hour. Trust me, I would not be there.
** It’s a group practise. I imagine them sitting around at their admin meeting and saying, okay, we have an axe murderer, a pathological collector of HP Lovecraft t shirts^, someone who thinks they’re Napoleon/Marie Stopes/Edward Cullen and a writer with writer’s block . . . and a chorus of voices reply eagerly, I’ll take the axe murderer! I’ll take Lovecraft, AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS is the best novel of the 20th century! I’ll take Marie Stopes! . . . Silence. I am fully booked, says the person remaining. I totally must shampoo the cat, and then sort the contents of the kibble bin by size. Fluffy is so particular. I can’t consider taking on a new client till someone else has been desperate enough to take the wri—I mean, probably not till next year.
*** Personally I scramble my eggs. But Peter does the egg-spoon trick.
† Note to self: Metis and Nadia must never meet.
†† If Jackie Oates http://www.jackieoates.co.uk/live-dates/ comes anywhere near you and/or you have a friend who is willing to do the driving, speaking of driving,^ and unless you are one of these poor sad creatures who doesn’t get good folk music, go. And listen especially closely to the newly arranged and adapted 21st-century lyrics to A Cornish Young Man, which are delicious.
^ Fiona and I found a new yarn shop. I was doing pretty well+ till I made the mistake of checking out the sale bin again. I had thought on the way in that the Yarn Pet percentage might be a little perilous but at that point I had a whole shop to be endangered by and adrenaline was running high. And I then managed (mostly) to resist the breathtakingly gorgeous single-skein small-local-indie-dyers gauntlet, chiefly because I have some self-protective resistance to spending more than a New York City shrink’s hourly rate on a one-off that there isn’t even enough of to make a scarf. A fichu maybe.++
AND THEN I WENT BACK TO THE FRELLING SALE BIN. Alpaca is evil. Especially when it is mixed in big fat fluffy skeins with merino. You can frelling hear it purring when you cradle it in your arms.+++
+ I say nothing about how Fiona was doing
++ If you’re small and flat-chested.
+++ Dogs purr too, you know. At least every dog I’ve ever had purrs when it settles in your lap. Whether it fits in your lap or not.
††† And/or stay up late and don’t do mornings anyway. Although some annoying person^ has pointed out that I do do mornings, I do a lot of mornings, I just do the, you know, little end.
^ I never name names on this blog but this particular person is very annoying about handbells.+
+ What do you mean you can’t ring handbells tomorrow, the next day, the day after that and three times on Madnessday? —GO AWAY. YOU’RE RETIRED. SOME OF US ARE STILL WORKING FOR A LIVING# AND FURTHERMORE MAY POSSIBLY DO OTHER THINGS IN THEIR SPARE [SIC] TIME THAT AREN’T HANDBELLS. ##
# Or at least staring despairingly at an empty computer screen regularly.
## Aren’t . . . handbells? this person murmurs brokenly.
‡ And this potent sacrifice was absolutely worth it for the barrage of brownie points thus accrued. I can probably spill scalding coffee on the director/the fancy new computer/the delicately poised for heightened reactivity electronic fire alarm and no one will say anything.
‡‡ Your Body Is Your Instrument I Wish I Had Taken up the Guitar When I Was a Teenager Like Everyone Else Did. Nadia told me the last time I was beating up Batti Batti O Bel Masetto to skip the allegro, which has all those frelling runs in it AND goes up to a high B. Last time, as I recall, I did leave it alone. This time I was idly leafing through it again when a little light went on and I said, Hey! It’s a B flat! I can (usually) get to B flat! —So, occasionally, late at night^, when my voice is feeling all relaxed^^ and warm and willing I sing the allegro. I can’t frelling sing and play the piano at the same time, but I do have a finger poised to hit that B flat to make sure I’m hitting it, if you follow me. I usually am, in my squeaky un-self-confident and death-defying-not-in-a-good-way way^^^.
And next time through I can’t hit G. I can always hit a friggleblasting doodahing G, give me a flapdoodling BREAK. Yes, I can always hit a G, except right after I’ve hit an A sharp/B flat and my voice says NO WE DON’T DO THAT and shuts down. That’s SHUTS. DOWN. Arrrrrrgh. And then it’s back to Edwardian parlour ballads till it forgives me. ARRRRRRGH.
^ Or in a little morning hour
^^^ Yes I can hear the unglefrakking difference when Nadia manages to persuade me to float down from above a note rather than ramping up at it from underneath like a guerrilla attack on a dangerous enemy. Sigh. Sometimes I’m very flat indeed. Sometimes I just . . . sound like I’m attacking an enemy I’m terrified of.+ SIGH.
+ I also indulge in a concomitant worry that St Margaret’s will decide they’re not that desperate for singers at the evening service.
‡‡‡ And brownies. I had told Niall firmly that if there were no brownies I would remember a prior engagement. What prior engagement? said Niall suspiciously. Well, I forget, I said, there are brownies, right?
Wolfgang and I managed to run over Peter today.
No, no, Peter’s fine*. JESUS GOD AND ALL THE SAINTS. I’m a freaking hysterical meltdown mess. Peter seems to have thought it was FUNNY. He thinks it’s FUNNY to be married to a CRAZY HOMICIDAL** WIFE.
We’ve had two beautiful spring days in a row. I’ve been trying to hack out time for frantic gardening: this is the time of year when I very very briefly believe that maybe THIS year I’m going to have the garden at the cottage in something almost resembling order for more than three seconds the end of April.*** I’m not expecting to attain a very close facsimile of order . . . just, you know, frothy ebullience caused by healthy plants doing what they feel like doing instead of what I had planned for them to do. This does however require that the plants I planted thrive and the frelling weeds grow less fast than I yank them up. The back wall is at present a jungle nightmare of last year’s skeletal goose grass, all of which will have seeded and seeded and seeded.†
ANYWAY. Peter and I usually go to the big library on Tuesday afternoon and have a nice cup of tea in the café, usually with two or three or eight books per while we decide what we want to check out and take home with us. Peter felt that a fancy country garden with a café with outdoor tables was what he wanted today †† . . . and I brought Pav along for her first encounter with Montmorency’s Folly.†††
The last bit of drive is narrow and lumpy. I wanted to let Peter off as close to the gate as possible, so I’d pulled in pretty hard against the end of the hedge so that other cars heading for the car park could squeeze past me. He climbed out of Wolfgang and . . .
I know how slowly he moves these days, and I know the way that right foot turns out, and that it’s slower than the left foot.‡ I know these things. I guess all I can say is that I was worried about getting out of the way before—ahem!—someone ran into us, and that I was preoccupied with cars coming up on my right. I put Wolfgang into reverse and . . .
There was a colossal thud, and Peter disappeared from view. AAAAAAAAAUGH.
And some helpful person came rushing over while I was hysterically turning Wolfgang off and slamming on the handbrake. When I scrambled around to the other side I discovered my husband lying on the ground with his right foot trapped under Wolfgang’s left front wheel.
Not very far. Peter was saying I’m fine, I’m fine, or words to that effect—I admit my memory is not totally clear on this point—but it was only his shoe, not his foot, that was being lightly crushed. Now if I’d had any sense whatsoever I’d’ve told him to get his foot OUT of the shoe before I tried to roll forward, but I didn’t, I rushed back to the driver’s side—shaking like an aspen, I might add—while the Helpful Person said, Be careful not to roll backwards!
Ahem. Do I have to tell you we were on a slight hill so that the moment I took the handbrake off we would roll backwards? By this time the Helpful Person’s husband had turned up, why didn’t one of these people who wasn’t related to the man on the ground and wasn’t driving the car that had just knocked him over say LET’S GET THE SHOE OFF AND GET HIM OUT OF HARM’S WAY BEFORE WE DO ANYTHING ELSE?
But they didn’t. And I spent a few seconds taking deep breaths, put Wolfgang into gear and . . . rolled forward perfectly. Peter said later that the fender had caught him on that weak right leg as I turned the wheel to angle away from the hedge—having not adequately checked first that he was clear—and when he fell his right foot had . . .
I don’t remember much about the garden. Pav enjoyed herself and thought rolling around on the courtyard gravel outside the café was an adventure, and while she was perhaps a trifle exuberant her only serious breakdown in . . . well, let’s not say manners, let’s say pretence of manners, was when I left her BRIEFLY tied to Peter’s chair to fetch sugar and silverware—Peter having brought me a fresh pot of tea—and you’d have thought I was leaving her in a basket on some convent steps with insufficient provisions. This has nothing to do with emotional attachment, you realise: it’s because from her perspective I was going toward a place that smelled more like food than where she was and leaving her behind. A fine coloratura of protest followed.
I didn’t run over anybody else. NEXT WEEK WE GO TO THE LIBRARY.
And you may have noticed the title of this post is ‘A Day of Lows’ as in plural? Yes. On any other day I would tell you how I spent over an hour on the phone to my American bank and they having confirmed that the wire had been sent, followed up shortly with an email saying it hadn’t, and that I have to do it all over again tomorrow.
* * *
* Believe me if he wasn’t I would not be writing this blog report of the incident. I would either be in jail or throwing myself off a bridge.^
^ Having first left the hellmob in a series of baskets on the steps of the local . . . um. We don’t actually have a local convent and I’m not sure how the monks feel about foundlings.+ I think really it’s a good thing I didn’t run over Peter very hard.
+ I do know that Alfrick does not like dogs.# Which is his only major character flaw now that he’s given up smoking.
# Shocking. Oh, no, wait, it’s probably the Franciscans who have to be soppy about animals. I don’t remember if Benedict says anything about critters being your brothers and sisters.~
~ ‘Sister Death’ is pretty well known but apparently Francis also called his various illnesses and disabilities his brothers and sisters, which casts a slight shadow on his attitude toward our animal brethren and sistren. This also makes the ME my evil twin, but I knew that already.
** Homicidal and incompetent. Fortunately.
*** We are not facing the reality of the garden at Third House at all.^ Nina recently was saying kindly that she could come round some weekend afternoon and help me get the stuff out of its overgrown pots and into the ground. Politely failing to point out that some of it has been in its (overgrown) pots for years. I do usually manage to get the pots-in-waiting stuff fed, which is of course part of the reason some of it is quite so overgrown. I’m sure garden centres sell their plants in flimsy plastic pots for reasons of price control, but if you have to CUT the plant out of its pot by the time you get round to putting it in the ground, flimsy is good.
^ I still haven’t got the attic any more sorted than ‘can fight way through from stairs to back wall’.+
+ Worse, I keep looking around and wondering if there’s ANY CHANCE I could bash out space for the green horsehair sofa, which is the one remaining oversized piece of furniture at the mews. We’re supposed to be selling it. It’s not grand, it’ll only fetch a ‘just about worth it to hire the van’ price, but it’s another of the old Dickinson family pieces and we got it restuffed and recovered as part of the New Wife thing when I first moved over here into the old house, and I am a sentimental cow. Also I chose the green velvet it is now covered with, and the hellhounds and I have spent many happy hours on it. Some of the upholstered old family furniture had seen a few more generations than was good for it, and as I recall I blanched and trembled at it in its earlier state.
† It will be worth it, trying to catch up with the wretched stuff^ if it has seeded really enthusiastically in my neighbour-over-the-back-wall’s garden, whose ugly shed roof ruins my view. The problem with this plan is that the neighbour won’t care. He’ll just hire another gardener.
^ At least it’s easy to pull up unlike most of the worst perennial weeds. However because it is, as Peter used to call it, nature’s Velcro, you also come away from a weeding session looking like the Abominable Goose Grass Person and needing frelling hedge trimmers and possibly a flamethrower to get it off you again. Also, however many huge green garden bags you have satisfyingly tamped full of the stuff, by the time you’ve squashed as many of these as you can fit into Wolfgang to haul off to the dump, and possibly sat down to have a cup of tea, it will all have grown back again.
†† It’s not like we don’t have plenty to read.
††† Hellhounds have been round the edges of Montmorency’s Folly many, many times, but the rules about dogs inside the garden are discouraging^ and they would be miserable lying in the courtyard while we had our tea. Pav, on the other hand . . .
^ And with the number of uncontrolled dogs and quantity of unpicked-up crap there is in this country I am not going to argue about this ruling.
‡ You Americans must remember we have right-hand drive in this country, so my passenger is getting out on the left, with his right side nearer the side of the car.
. . . NO NO NO NO I CAN’T POSSIBLY START WITH THAT FIRST LINE, SOMETHING MIGHT BE LISTENING. . . . ::DANCES THE FANDANGO IN A DISTRACTING MANNER::* . . . It’s been a pretty crappy almost everything lately, you can hardly blame me for being paranoid. So, what I was risking saying was, I’ve had two surprisingly okay, engaged, useful, whatever, voice lessons in a row . . . just in time however for a three-week holiday break during which I will doubtless go to flat, unrhythmic little splinters again. So the powers of entropy don’t have to be paying attention. The gremlins can just lie back and giggle. Throw the occasional brickbat if they feel inspired. Although I may dare to hope for metaphorical brickbats.**
My attitude = not great.
I managed to whomp the whatsit out of myself with a not-very-metaphorical brickbat just before last week’s voice lesson and I mean whomp. The gremlins would have been proud of me. You may recall that this is A New Computer.*** I was rummaging a fortnight ago, in the scary dark interstices of the EVERYTHING folder, where files you haven’t seen since before you had a computer may lurk undetected for centuries, or at least till they make the next gazillion storage media redundant.† And, lo and behold, I unearthed a couple of the recordings I’d made of voice lessons YEARS ago, or at least I hope it was years. And I made the very nearly fatal mistake of listening to one of them.††
DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN I KNEW I WAS BAD BUT I HAD NO IDEA I WAS THAT BAD.††† I also remember that when I played them back at the time I was a little discouraged‡—also I had some other great emotional drama playing out in my life at the time and I’m learning that this always has a Florence-Foster-Jenkins-izing‡‡ effect on my singing—but I don’t think I wanted to find a bridge to jump off of. I should have wanted to find a bridge to jump off of, or at least to stop singing forever and let Nadia fill my slot with someone she can teach to SING. AAAAAAAAAAAAUGH.
About the only thing to say for this utterly demoralising experience is that I didn’t consider giving up singing forever. It’s too late. I sing for sanity.‡‡‡ But I pretty much went in for my lesson on my hands and knees last week and Nadia, bless her, said I FORBID YOU TO LISTEN TO THAT RECORDING. EITHER BURY IT IN THE BACK GARDEN OR—RECOMMENDED—DELETE IT. YOU’RE JUST HURTING YOURSELF LISTENING TO IT NOW. . . . The real point being she did NOT say, actually, I’ve been meaning to discuss giving your slot to someone I can teach to sing. . . . She did say that I’ve improved. WELL I COULD HARDLY HAVE GOT WORSE.
I came out of this at last week’s lesson like a bull terrier going for her supper Kong and SANG.§ It may not have been pretty but it was energetic. And this is the time of year when you can probably even sing (audibly) on the street without people thinking you’re the Crazy Singing Lady§§ and I’m having my annual frenzy of learning all the rest of the verses to my top favourite 1,000,000 Christmas carols§§§—which I admit is cutting into proper practise time but it does mean I’m singing.#
And . . . (re)learning Christmas carols## this year, I came to In the Bleak Midwinter and . . . hmmm. It hadn’t really registered with me till I moved over here, but it’s (perhaps) Peter’s favourite and has become one of mine. But this year, singing it, I thought, this isn’t a carol, this is a song that happens to be about Christmas. So I’m going to learn it properly—I took it in to Nadia today—and sing it all year. And become the Crazy Singing Lady who sings carols in midsummer. If I’m going to become the Florence Foster Jenkins of the 21st century I might as well do it with some flourish and swagger.
* * *
* And me dancing the fandango would be very distracting.^ Not in a good way.
^ Eh. You need a partner for the fandango. ::Eyes the hellmob+:: Hellhounds get that ‘oh help and glory she’s not going to shove FOOD at us again is she??? But we just ate last week’ look on their faces, delicately rearrange themselves to face the wall and appear to be deeply preoccupied with going to sleep. Hellterror throws herself up on her hind legs and starts demonstrating her idea of a fandango, shouting, ME, COACH! PUT ME IN! I CAN FANDANGO! ALL I NEED IS A CARMEN MIRANDA HAT!
+ Or hellhorde, as some enterprising forum poster suggested.
** You probably think gremlins are metaphorical. NOT IN MY LIFE.
*** The old one is still in a box under Raphael’s desk because he’s going to find time to resuscitate it any minute.^ You know, like maybe March. 2016. Not that I feel that I’m not getting my contract support hours out of him however: it’s a good day when I have texted/emailed/screamed-so-they-could-hear-me-in-Dorset him about the ultrabook’s^^ latest little ways fewer than 4,612 times.
^ Yes, since you ask. There’s still stuff on it that I’m missing.+ And you’re totally up to date with your back ups, your files are flawlessly labelled and you’re all ready for Christmas, right? GO. AWAY.
+ Besides the remnants of my sanity. Sanity, computers and I are really not an integrated whole. We’re kind of this universe, the anti-universe, and a third thing nobody’s discovered yet but it makes an even bigger bang.
^^ I’ve already complained to you about how you can’t say LAPTOP any more? That’s just so turn of the century. No, it’s ULTRABOOKS now. Ewww. I thought ‘laptops’ was naff, but ultrabooks has that Marketing Genius pong about it. Go away.+ Go shed your fuzzy, asthma-inducing fashionability on someone else’s carpets. I just want a computer that will fit in my knapsack.
+ I probably shouldn’t be repeating ‘Go away’ so often three days before Christmas, right? . . . GO AWAY.~
~ I know. You saw that coming. Sorry. It’s been a hard year.
† So, how about all those cassette tapes and floppy discs?
†† Well, I had a row of knitting to finish. And then about a skein and a half of rows after that.
††† May I grovel in apology here to the two or three people I’ve taken along to my voice lessons. In my pathetic defense I took them because I wanted them to meet Nadia and see/hear how totally cool and interesting and exact and responsive she is, and the way she can adjust what she says to what the student can take on.^ It’s true that part of the experience is that they have to hear me sing, but . . . well, I knew I wasn’t good, but . . . GROVELS EXTENSIVELY. I’LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN. NEVER EVER. I PROMISE.
^ I get a lot of horse riding metaphors.
‡ I also remember I blogged about it, but I don’t want to go back and read what I said.
‡‡ One of the things I might have found interesting if I hadn’t been having a nervous breakdown is what Nadia has been telling me for years about what she tactfully calls my ‘tuning’ issues which is to say that I spend most of my time going flat, not because I have no ear^ but from nerves. No no I can’t possibly do that whatever it is! FLAT!!!! And she’s right. It’s the exposed notes that go flat; it’s got pretty much nothing to do with pitch. I’ll go flat on a frelling C if it’s the top note of the bar; in the next bar I’ll sing an F on pitch if there’s a G above it I can go flat on instead. Why don’t I stick to knitting?^^
^ I haven’t got much ear but I generally recognise flat when I hear it. Except when I’m deaf from the throbbing in both ears.
^^ Because I’m also a lousy knitter? Sigh. Although until my life placids out a little I’m not even interested in doing anything more exciting than stocking or garter stitch with maybe the odd bit of ribbing for variety. I knit for tranquillity+. But then I sing for sanity.++
++ Um. Yes. And I’d be even less tranquil without my error-liable knitting. SIGH.
‡‡‡ Yes. As previous footnote. Also, for some inexplicable reason, my church likes my singing. They are even more desperate and/or tone deaf than I realised.
§ Any of you know Brother James’ Air? It is so pretty.
§§ Which they think the rest of the year. Crazy Singing Lady with a Variety of Dogs.
§§§ Every year they come back a little quicker. How long have I been taking voice lessons, and singing increasingly shamelessly on the street?^ By the time I die of extreme old age I’ll probably be quavering my way through all sixteen verses of everything at Christmas.
^ It’s done me serious good the last few months, I think, despite what the neighbours think, because of the adjusting-to-new-sitting-room-with-new-acoustics thing which was a much bigger issue than I’d expected. Silly me. Of course it was going to be an issue. In a little tiny sitting room I can—and do—make the blasted lamps rattle, because I have so little frelling control. I’m either loud or shut down to a faint creak. Sigh.
# Singing for sanity. As I keep saying. Thank God for singing (if badly) and knitting (if badly).
## There’s also the ever-interesting topic of the way the British keep jerking the tunes around. An exploration for some other evening.
Okay, I’ve got some stories for you, but no time to tell them. But as a placeholder you might find the email I just wrote to Worthy Charity #74,821,333 mildly entertaining:
Your web designer is a MORON. Please pass on my lack of respect. In the first place, why is a title required? Many people—myself included—prefer not to use one if we’re given the option. Then, if the standard short list of titles your site provides does not apply and one is so foolhardy as to tick ‘other’, one is presented with a drop-down list of epic proportions, offering ever wilder opportunities, Death Star Commander, Harvest Goddess, Sixth Degree of Kevin Bacon . . . and lo and behold tucked away in there is ‘Family’. My sponsorship is a gift to four members of a family, and so with a somewhat wary relief, I ticked ‘family’. BUT A FIRST NAME IS STILL REQUIRED. Um. Xxxx? Ja-Sa-Sa-An? What? This is to a family. There is no single ‘first name.’ And the four of them are going to have to look at whatever inanity I come up with for the duration of the sponsorship. Thanks ever so.
If you’re lucky, your other would-be sponsors are less volatile. I am fed up to here with web sites that have been designed by lobotomised beavers with hangovers. This time of year I do a lot of on line ordering and there are a lot of worthy charities out there, some of whose web sites function more or less straightforwardly. I could have sponsored another [furry critter worth keeping alive and well fed] for half the price of one of your [glorified superwhatsits]: but it wouldn’t [grow up to make the world a better place]. So here I am. Fuming.
R McKinley Dickinson
I’m going to be at the hospital a lot of tomorrow again and then I have somehow allowed myself to get ensorcelled into frelling handbells in the evening. ARRRRGH. I’ve warned Niall I will have No Brain after all that knitting* but he seems to think this is not as relevant as the Body in the Chair with Outstretched Hands Holding Handbells part of it. He may live to regret this. Meanwhile I’m missing deadlines right and left** but if I have the kind of limbo-brain later tomorrow night that is utterly incapable of work*** but could probably splodge out a blog post as an alternative to cruising end-of-year knitting sale sites . . . I’ll give splodging a try.
PS: Thanks for all the nice supportive words, all you readers, both on the forum and in my email inbox. The kindness of strangers–or semi-strangers–is more of a comfort than perhaps most of you guess.
* * *
* Just as an aside, thank God for knitting as a way of not driving the ill person you’re visiting crazy. Also the nurses would probably throw me out after I picked the second chair to pieces. Not that God is my favourite person recently with all the depressing mayhem in my life, but my monk ruthlessly pointed out that the bloke whose birthday we’re celebrating next week suffered^ so that none of us need ever suffer alone AND THERE’S A CYCLICAL NON-LOGIC TO THIS THAT I DON’T LIKE AT ALL but . . . yeah. I have no idea how it works but the thing is that it does work. It doesn’t work ENOUGH. But . . . Jesus and knitting. Okay. Whatever.
^ among other reasons to do with life everlasting where it’s never too cold to sit still and contemplate higher things and eating too much chocolate never makes you fat
** No, nothing to do with EBON, I’m afraid. EBON doesn’t even have a deadline to miss at the moment, sigh. No, things like interviews for Open Road who are trying valiantly to publicise all those shiny new ebooks, and house insurance. HOUSE INSURANCE?? I’M OVERDUE ON THE HOUSE INSURANCE? Fortunately an insurance company that has had you by the short hairs for a number of years tends to come after you pretty robustly. MONEY. WE WANT MONEY. WE WANT YOUR MONEY. WE WANT IT NOOOOOOOW. I put the cheque in the post today. That only leaves 1,000,000,000 deadlines of a moderately life-threatening nature to go.
*** This includes looking at columns of figures with slightly more understanding than if I were staring at the Voynich manuscript, and writing my signature on the bottom of cheques that the bank won’t return as forgeries^.
^ Tear splotches and bloodstains, of course, are majestically ignored. Banks have seen that all before.
. . . only more annoying. Thanksgiving in England. Feh. COMPUTERS. GINORMOUS ERUPTING ARRRRRGH WITH LOTS OF BOILING LAVA. And maybe a fire-god or two. And Boadicea—she’s supposed to have flaming red hair, right?—and the scything knives on her chariot.* What’s the computer version of a red-haired warrior queen with whizzing chopper blades on her war-chariot’s wheels and a really really bad attitude toward her overlords? I NEED THIS. WHATEVER IT IS. I NEED IT BADLY. I NEED IT NOW.
Peter and I did manage to go out for dinner—I know, we should have been at home slaving over a whole series of hot, speaking of hot, cooking aids, including the wooden spoon you accidentally left in the whatever and which is beginning to give off a pleasant fragrance of charring wood, but—why? Christmas will be here soon enough.** Never mind my confusingly American-sounding accent, my passport, and my place of birth: I’m British. I find Thanksgiving quaint, and, with my digestion, superfluous. Another good reason to live in England. Tick that box.
But we didn’t go out to dinner to celebrate, if in a non-traditional way, because it was Thanksgiving. We went out to dinner because we were supposed to go out for tea, only I missed. I got to bed late even for me*** thanks to one of my duty shifts running over time, and when I finally staggered out of bed again I ENTIRELY FORGOT that I was supposed to be ringing Raphael so he could do his Remote Meddling and yank the latest diabolical computer miseries† back into some temporary but functional alignment†† . . . until I’d already had the first necessary injection of caffeine, and had tried to turn a computer on . . . ARRRRRGH.
By the time Raphael had returned from rappelling down the side of the Post Office Tower††† I was too late to go out for tea. But we went out for dinner. Which was really better anyway since you don’t usually get champagne at tea time.
* * *
* I could have put Kes in a chariot . . . maybe in book twelve or sixteen or something.
There is a surprising paucity of really satisfactory images of Boadicea, considering she’s one of the few major historical heroines around. I was looking for one with impressive, you know, gauntlets, which might conceivably be magical bracelets, with or without rose embellishments. There aren’t any that I can find after poking around in the usual places via Google:
Hey, lady, anything you say, if you stop waving that kitchen knife at me.
Um, how are they steering those horses? Telepathy?
** I spent one ENTIRE EVENING this week when I could have been, I don’t know, writing a blog post or something, on-line ordering frelling they-deliver pot plants to go to the members of the Dickinson clan it would be the most embarrassing if I forgot entirely (again) . . . I mean, I don’t forget, I just don’t get around to, you know, organising the final dash to the holiday finish line . . . including having got so far as buying things like calendars and tins of biscuits WHICH WILL HAVE GONE OUT OF DATE by the time I unearth them next year because I didn’t get them WRAPPED AND SENT LAST YEAR. Anybody want a decorative tin of stale biscuits? I can occasionally recycle the calendar photos which are often . . . oh, roses or something. And may I just remark that that venerable British manufacturing icon, Blu Frelling Tack^, is not worth its reputation. Sure, it’s reusable. It’s reusable up to and including the 1,000,000,000th time something has fallen off the wall/the back of the refrigerator^^/the side of the cupboard/the edge of the bookshelf, etc, that it was supposedly glomped onto by Blu Tack. I have other things to do with my time than resticking. ^^^
^ Why not Blue Tack or Blu Tak? Blu Tack merely looks confused and indecisive. +
+ Hums an old American folk song and does not make any obvious remarks about British politicians.
^^ which is much more attractive covered in calendar cut-out photos of roses
^^^ Laundry, for example. The INSUFFICIENT advantage of washing hellmob bedding every two or three days is that the critter hair problem is much reduced+. Well, sort of. The ambient hair level is definitely lower, as is the amount I claw out of the washing machine after every critter load. But it means that EVERYTHING I OWN that gets washed in the machine now has some critter hair in it. Yes, I run a quick cold wash after the mob stuff comes out, but that’s like using a broom to sweep off snow-laden steps that you’ve already tramped up and down several times. I used to be able to sort of stagger post-critter-washes so the jeans took the worst, and then the sweatshirts and outer layers and finally . . . hmmm. I’m here to tell you that I haven’t found a clothes brush yet—including those disposable sticky-tape ones and the little pads that are like a cross between velvet and Velcro—that works worth a damn on your underwear.
Meanwhile . . . I began Flea Protocol #7,243,006 today. SIIIIIIIIGH. One of the reasons I’m posting less often lately is that I’m frelling reading everything I can get my gnarly hands on about . . . well, about parasites generally, at this point, and about immune system strengtheners and blah blah blah, to give me more ideas about what else to try for fleas. The fact that there’s a huge amount of controversy and conflict and contradictory PROOF [sic] about what is safe to use is not helping. Maybe I could just bore the ugly little sods into going somewhere else? . . . Oh God guys here she comes again. I just want to suck blood in peace, what is her PROBLEM? We’re so tiny—she’d never have to know we’re here—all 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 of us. Okay mates we’re gonna hide behind this ear—NO NO SHE’S GOING FOR THE EARS. One of the advantages of naturally comatose++, plasticine+++ hellhounds is that you can roll them around and rub whatever into their fur, including all their private bits, any way you like. As long as it doesn’t involve swallowing anything it’s all attention, and it’s all good. The hellterror is also perfectly happy to be rolled around, but she tends to want to engage with the game WILL YOU HOLD STILL YOU THING. ARR-ARR-ARR-ARR, says happy engaged hellterror.
+ I still want to know whose brilliant idea it was to design the front-loader part of a front-loading washing machine to accumulate dirty water, critter hair, tiny shreds of unidentifiable gubbins and really unpleasant semi-dissolved yuck, in the un-get-at-able bottom of the door, defended by several heavy, uncooperative folds of rubber tubing. Which is apparently still standard over here, including the greater European Union, since both my last was and my current washing machine is, German#. My not-very-new-any-more washing machine gets very mixed reviews from me; not only is the front-loading door familiar in all the wrong ways, its filter is emergency only and you must approach it by precision serial usage of several Special Tools and the manual suggests sacrificing a black cockerel at the new moon as well, although advice about how to predict which new moon is the one heralding more-than-the-usual filter anguish does not seem to be included.
# Different brands. I try to make different mistakes.
++ Except, of course, outdoors, if there is a prospect of SOMETHING TO CHASE. Although Chaos did manage to slam into a cupboard once back at the mews because he saw a mouse amble across the floor.
+++ Or possibly Fawn, Charcoal and Tri-Colour Tack
*** I bring the hellmob back to the cottage from Third House sequentially, hellhounds first and hellterror second. I looooove the new system, by the way, because the Last Hurtle of the Day is built in, without recourse to Wolfgang, and can be any length I/we choose, depending on energy levels, the way the day/night has gone thus far, what is going to jump on me from a dark corner in the day to come, and a variety of other factors, lately chiefly the heaviness of the RAIN.^ Wednesday night I was coming back, as mentioned above, um, rather spectacularly late, which is to say, um, dawn, and noodling along not paying attention to anything much while Pav investigated every leaf, shadow and discarded crisp packet . . . and WE SUDDENLY MET ANOTHER WOMAN AND HER DOG. OOOOOOPS. The other woman and I looked at each other in amazement. I never see anyone else out at this hour! she said. Erm, I said, neither do I—failing to mention that I hadn’t been to bed yet. She had all the irritating glitter of the early riser about her.
^ Have I mentioned that fleas like warm and wet and that one of the things that haunts me is the possibility that this unprecedented invasion is a front runner of global warming? And I’m really looking forward to the return of malaria to southern England. Not.
† The beginning of the week I had no email for nearly two days. The middle of the week I had no internet for nearly two days. I’ve been doing a lot of knitting.^
And my new kit—ultrabook and iPad Air—was supposed to be here by the end of this week so Raphael could install it next week AND GUESS WHAT IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT AND I HAVEN’T HEARD ANYTHING.
^ Which I promise or, if you prefer, threaten, will be the topic of a blog post soon.
†† This process is seriously disconcerting. I turn on the gizmo programme from my end, it goes SHAZZAM!!!, my screen turns midnight-blue and suddenly Raphael, from however many miles away, is invisibly moving my mouse around and opening and shutting my files and my browser(s) and . . . eeeeep.
††† See, there was this peregrine nest dangling over the gruntzenjam ventilator of the main computer scorbovarg, and the operators all cried in one voice, RAPHAEL!^
^ He used a rope to keep up appearances. An archangel hovering beside the Post Office Tower in central London would definitely cause a traffic jam.