Robin McKinley's Blog, page 126

Signing Eve

 

Thanks to everyone who entered the Silly Signing Clothing Contest.  I'm afraid it'll probably be Friday before I can cope with the counting and the random number generator, but . . . THANK YOU.   A copy of the UK PEGASUS will be coming toward one of you soon.

* * *

OH GODS THE FRELLING SIGNING IS TOMORROW.  ISN'T THERE A NICE ANONYMOUS EMERGENCY IN HARROGATE OR MIDLOTHIAN OR SOMEWHERE WHERE MY PRESENCE COULD BE CRUCIAL TO SUCCESS? 

            No, no, wait, I didn't mean that, of course not, what was I thinking?, I mean, OH! YAAY! THE LOVELY SIGNING IS TOMORROW!  I'M GOING TO LONDON TOMORROW FOR A LOVELY SIGNING!  I WILL SIGN LOTS OF COPIES* OF PEGASUS** AND I WILL HAVE A LOVELY TIME CHATTING TO ALL THE NICE PEOPLE!  I LOVE PEOPLE!  I'M SO GOOD AT CHATTING, ESPECIALLY TO STRANGERS!***

            I don't think I can keep this up for long. . . .

            As I think I tweeted to someone recently, the only real attraction of public appearances for me is the excuse to wear silly clothing.  I've always loved dressing up, it's just that having got dressed up and made my entrance I'm ready to go home again and put my jeans back on.  Parties.  Shudder.  One of the additional problems with parties is that generally speaking you're trying to look your best at a party, rather than like a raging loony, and my idea of fun threads tends toward the raging loony end.†  At least with an author gig I know what I'm there for††, which is to Engage Directly with Some Small Portion of My Audience—aside from the nightmarish possibility that no one will come†††—and so long as whatever you're wearing doesn't restrict your mouth or your writing arm you can answer questions and sign books dressed as the Lambton Worm‡ or the Houses of Parliament as well as in a twinset and a modest tweed skirt.  I suppose you shouldn't frighten your publicist.‡‡  In my experience your audience can usually swing with whatever is on offer, although that may be due to the flexibility of the fantasy-reading intellect.

            I'm at the never mind, it'll be over soon stage.  As I was also tweeting to someone recently (I think), the vast VAST majority of my readers are lovely.  They are both polite and enthusiastic, they buy books, they form a queue to the right when someone tells them that's where the queue forms and they are generally either articulate or have pleasant giggles. . . . But I, of course, remember the ones who have travelled five hundred miles to tell me how much they hate my books‡‡‡, the ones that feel that my feminism distorts my view of reality, the ones who think my books would be pretty good if I'd only had the benefit of their insight sooner, and that my next books could be better if I'd keep their advice in mind . . . and the ones that have brought a specially printed out copy of their 1000-page manuscript (the first of a series) so I can take it home with me and read it.§  I am short on people skills!  I can blow you off by email much more efficiently!  I also am a terrible wuss.  Unless you piss me off—which, granted, is perhaps not that hard to do—I hate hurting people's feelings.  I've been wrong-footed so frelling many times simply by giving way when I should've grimly held my line like the Greeks at Thermopylae. 

            But tomorrow is going to be great, right?

            It'll be over soon . . .

* * *

There were no bats last night.  At least I think there weren't any.  I did turn my light out and promptly dive under a carefully prior-arranged rampart of pillows, having also spent what energy I had in telling myself they were only little bats, they were not a big deal even in the bedroom with me, and if it came to that I could just sleep through the beating of tiny wings and the ambling of tiny bodies over the hummock under the bedclothes that is me.  And if I believed that I had a nice bridge I could sell myself later.  I lay there under my pillows straining to pretend I wasn't straining for any sound of tiny beating wings. . . . And there wasn't any such sound.  I think.  Maybe I'm just deafer than I realise.§§  Eventually I fell asleep . . .  And Atlas has now spent two more days sealing up anything that REMOTELY resembles a hole§§§, and we wait upon events.

            Also, it's raining.  Fiona mentioned this yesterday#, but I'd been thinking about it.  It's already been put forward as a theory that one reason my bats may have broken through into the house this year is because of the drought.  A lot of their usual sources have dried up, and they can smell the water in my tank—and to a bat smaller than the palm of my hand, the splashes in the sink may count as a good drink.##   Atlas plugged a lot of the obvious holes . . . and it started raining.  I didn't have bats for several weeks, and we had a fair amount of rain, off and on, for several weeks.  Then it stopped raining again.  I started having to water my garden again.  And the bats returned.  I still want TO FINISH BLOCKING ENTRY HOLES.  I DO NOT WANT BATS IN THE HOUSE EVEN IF IT'S A DESERT OUT THERE.  But it is a bit suggestive.  It rained yesterday and today too.  Not a lot—my monarda is still moaning that it's thirsty, it's always thirsty—but what I hope might be enough for bats no bigger than the palm of my hand.  Even four hundred and ten of them.

* * *

* Okay, the 'lots' would be good. 

** And possibly a few others

*** ::Whining noises::  —Who, me?  It's the hellhounds.  Who are, for the moment, eating.

† An additional reason why I am loath to give up the black leather mini is because it's such good theatre.  One of the major drawbacks of the SUNSHINE tour, aside from the simple fact of it being a tour, is that I did not want to get into the vampire chic thing—I am so not dangerous or Goth, you know?—so I regretfully left the sillier end of my leather collection at home.  But PEGASUS?  Totally the moment for a black leather mini.  Never mind my age. 

†† Unlike at a party.  What am I here for?  Is there champagne?  Is it properly cold? 

††† ::Suppressed rant on the subject of advertising::  Sometimes you're just not J K Rowling and that's all there is to it.  But the occasions that have left marks on my soul have been totally frelling frelled by the shop in question.  Grrrrr.  

‡ They deserved to be cursed to nine generations for killing the dog.  

‡‡ The Houses of Parliament may be over that line. 

‡‡‡ Or anyway have travelled 500 miles to attend the convention partly so they could come to my panel and tell me what a festering pustule on the face of literature I am.  Eeep. 

§ And the junior high track one English lit teachers who have assigned SUNSHINE to their seventh graders without having read it first. 

§§ Any of you other middle-aged and growing deaf out there, have you noticed the way you only go deaf for stuff you want to be able to hear?  The idiot conversation at the next table or the sound of tiny wings you hear as clearly as a twelve-year-old. 

§§§ And I bet the Bat Conservation Trust does not allocate grants to beleaguered householders paying for weeks of a professional carpenter's time. 

# Possibly while we were in the car on our way to the yarn store.  I needed cheering up, okay? 

## And yes, I'm aware that my saucers of water strategy may not be in my own best interests, but if I must have bats I prefer live frisky bats rather than sad dehydrated dying bats.

The Crossword Competition – and The Winners (guest post by AJLR)

 

(Note:  keep scrolling.  –hellgoddess)

Judging by the speed of the first few submissions of completed answers after the puzzle was made available, and the fun that many of you said you had with the competition, we obviously have a lot of thorough and devoted readers of Robin's books. Which we already knew, of course. :)  And the compilation of the crossword gave me an extra layer of respect for Robin's world-building skills. All that background detail in each story, all hanging together and making sense, all coming from one person's imagination and sense of logical progression!

All of the 37 entries were correct (with one late-but-just-in-time amendment that was allowed) and I hope that the entrants didn't end up with little squinty eyes from going backwards and forwards through so much screen text. Several participants commented that they'd thought they would remember more of the answers from earlier readings of the books than they actually did, particularly spellings. All I can say to that is that there must be a lot of people around here who have encyclopaedic memories!

And so to the three winners. These were drawn using a nice little random number picker that Blogmom passed on to me (thanks, Blogmom) and are:

1. Sarah (scribblous)

2. Diane (dllreader)

3. Rodrigo

Would those three people please email (using the same email address you sent your entry from) the mods(at)robinmckinleysblog.com address, ie the same one that was used for entry submissions, and let us know  a) your full name and postal address so that your prize can be posted to you and b) the words you would like inscribed inside it. Please do this as soon as possible and in any case before midday (British time) this coming Saturday, 9th July, at the very latest. Any later than that and it's entirely possible that Robin's bats will by then have flown off with your copy and awarded it to someone else…

Silly, and bats

 

Only twenty-four hours left to enter the Silly Signing Clothing Competition for a signed copy of the UK edition of PEGASUS.   And just so you know how desirable this prize is:

The British are all about strap lines. I have no idea. But then I'm not British. I just live here.

 Here it is with the original American hardback, so you can see that it's a very nice trade paper edition.

Aren't they PRETTY?

 There's a thread in 'Talk' in the forum here to post either photos or links to photos of ravishing outfits which I have to say most of them are, and I hope it's not putting off those of you who took the challenge the way I initially meant it, which is to say silly.  You do not have to be ravishing to enter.  You only have to be silly.  And for any of you anxious about appearing in public* . . . you could hang a photo of yourself in your standard garb of (say) t shirt and jeans** with a bag over your head.  This would count as an entry, because it's silly, it would save your blushes, and it would put me in the interesting position of deciding whether it counted as a onesy or a twosy, I having said that if you're wearing your silly signing clothing you get counted twice in the drawing . . . but it's true that I was assuming that your face would be showing. 

            Anyway, rules, such as they are, are here:   http://robinmckinleysblog.com/2011/07/03/the-sscc/  And while at the moment all the entries are on the forum there are a FB thread and a Twitter hashtag #sillypeg*** available for your convenience and the fruits of your sartorial inspiration.

            And so as promised (several days ago) here's the black leather mini that started it all.† 

Short. Yes. The books are there to provide scale.

And silly?  I'll be sixty years old in sixteen months and I'm going to wear this thing?   It doesn't get sillier.  And yes, as almost-sixty-year-old women go, I'm well preserved.  That doesn't alter the fact that I'm sixteen months off sixty.  And you know the real reason I have essentially cornered myself into wearing it?  It's a teeny, ridiculous, middle-aged-and-still-kicking version of Do not go gentle. ††  Feh.  I don't do dignity, I'm still fond of it, it's still in my drawer, so WTF.  Silly is good. 

            . . . I'm now going to bed early and may it be to some effect.  There was a slight outbreak of bats last night—and when your night begins with turning the light back on just to check that that faint whirr followed by a plop wasn't a bat, and . . . finding a bat in your LAP†††, the adrenaline level gets a bit intense.  And she was but the first.  They're now clearly getting through INTO MY BEDROOM somewhere—somewhere—Atlas has been here again today and pretty much everything that lives on a shelf in either my bedroom or the bathroom is all over the floor, the house smells of polyfilla, Atlas is coming back again tomorrow and I have a signing on Thursday. . . .

* * *

* With which I have total sympathy.  I've been violently allergic to cameras all my life and ironically have only got over it (sort of) because of the frelling blog.  The basic reason I hate cameras is that contrary to the mythology THEY LIE.  But enough photos in aggregate do build up toward something like a human being. 

** Extra points for All Stars 

*** I've mysteriously had two emails and a tweet from three (I'm assuming three different) people who say they've posted to #sillypeg on Twitter . . . but none of them has appeared.  The only tweets are mine and EMoon's.  If any of you is reading this . . . you need to try again.  I won't count anything I can't see however politely you tell me you've entered.^

^ I suppose I could have a separate category of Invisible Costumes.  What a silly idea. 

† Although I'm still mourning, in a snarly sort of way, Ajlr's pink catsuit.  

†† http://www.bigeye.com/donotgo.htm  We can discuss Thomas' gender-exclusive world view some other time.  It's still a great poem. 

††† Who meandered off down the duvet and flew a short hop to a picture frame to tuck herself behind.  You could see her thinking 'turn that frelling light off, will you?'

Life . . .

 

Hellhounds are eating.  The world is a beautiful place again (for the moment).  Happy Independence Day.  In spite of the bats.  I DID NOT SLEEP WONDERFULLY WELL LAST NIGHT.  Every time a snail tripped over a pebble outdoors I shot awake, convinced it was bats playing pinochle in the bathroom.*  When I got up this morning this was the t shirt I was moved to put on:

I need to learn to use the 'delay' button so I can take pictures of myself without recourse to the bathroom mirror.

            But it has not been a bad day . . . yet, she says cautiously, since I'm still at the mews and haven't been back to the cottage since this afternoon.  But I peeled the screen up from the corner of the bathroom window again (sigh) for easy Chiropteran departure and closed the bathroom door, not that creatures who can osmose through solid frelling walls couldn't get under/over/through it, but it might encourage them to look around for an easier exit first.  And—because I am a wet knee-jerk liberal eco leftie—I've put out several frelling saucers of frelling water because in this weather (it's HOT again) dehydration has got to be a danger zone for tiny panicking things.  I also went out this morning and nervously looked in the various places where I'd left all five of yesterday's visitors . . . and they were all gone.  Whew.  Yes, something might have got them, but in my walled garden it's a lot likelier they just said/squeaked/whistled the bat-equivalent of whew, and flew away. 

            And . . . I had rather a good voice lesson.  Relatively speaking.  I'm still not ready to audition for the Seraphim.  Maybe I was just extra-glad to see Nadia after a fortnight away.  But she asked me in a firm, schoolmistressy, you'd-better-come-up-with-something manner, what was going well with practise at home and after I said GAAAAAAAH I said that I was noticing that some of the stuff she was telling me was finally sinking in—that I felt I wasn't quite totally dependent on the weekly teacher-magic any more . . . and the interesting thing is that I'd been thinking that maybe for the first time today while I was warming up before I went off for my lesson.  And she snickered and said, I told you there was about a six-month time lag.  —I've just been looking back, and my first voice lesson with her was on Valentine's Day.  Hey, I'm precocious.  I'm a whole fortnight early.

            Oh and . . . yeah.  I'm going to sing in the Muddles' concert.  I am out of my infinitesimal mind.  But even Nadia is saying, if your choir director is telling you to sing in the concert, you should frelling sing in the frelling concert.   Whatever. . . .

 * * *

* Those of you who follow me on Twitter will know that when I got back to the cottage last night there were four bats waiting for me.  Four.^  Four, that is, more bats after the one I'd found earlier.  And here there is a wailing and a rending of garments.  Atlas is coming back tomorrow and we're going to take everything out of the linen cupboard in the bathroom again and look for fresh holes since it seems to be the bathroom where they're coming in (again).  I found two of them at the bottom of the pitchers beside the bath—which means I went round today and turned all my jugs, pitchers, vases, ewers and whatnot mouth down again—and two more of them crushed against the back of the first (or last, depending on how you're counting) riser at the top of the stair, right outside the bathroom door.  The fifth one, I admit, landed with a plop in the middle of the kitchen floor but until I am forced to think otherwise I'm going to hope she'd come down from upstairs. 

This was yesterday afternoon's advance scout exploring the cardboard box I had her in indoors till the sun subsided a little.

 And I was snarlingly reminded of the standard useless advice about capturing your bat—you're supposed to do a large version of the drinking glass and bit of cardboard that you use for putting bees and spiders and bugs outdoors.  Bats are tiny but they're not that tiny . . . and in my increasingly vast experience of bats indoors I don't think I've ever yet had a situation where you could employ a pudding-basin and a sheet of cardboard effectively—by the time I could have fetched my pudding-basin for the one in the middle of the floor last night, she had scampered over to the Aga and flattened herself against the adjoining cupboard.  The two that had pretty much become one with the level-cut double-twist 100% wool pile were extremely difficult to pry free—you know how stair risers tend to slant slightly backward toward the bottom angle with the next tread down—and as I keep saying they're SO LITTLE you are in a constant state of anxiety about hurting them.  And these two were only about two-thirds size—babies.  Two-thirds-grown babies, but still babies.  Littler than little. 

There are comfy paper towels and one of my ubiquitous saucers of water at the other end, but she's an adventurer.

And they were all wrapped up together—what I thought of was two teeny-tiny miniature hellhounds holding onto each other for dear life because they didn't know where they were and they were frightened and unhappy.  Which made me frightened and unhappy, of course, because I am a wet knee-jerk liberal eco leftie.   The thing still is that I don't want a godsblasted exclusion license.  I can't believe it would work—it might work in a modern house, and bats mysteriously often like modern houses, but you only have to look at my 200-plus-year-old roof line to know that there's nothing neat, tidy or square-cornered about the house under it.  And second, and this is where the wet eco leftie comes in, where would they all go?  I have over four hundred pipistrelles living in my roof!  And while pipistrelles are not on the endangered list they are protected for the very good reason that their populations have plummeted and I totally want bats around eating bugs!^^

And yes there is also a LID so she was still IN the box when I got back later to put her outdoors. But I can't help being a bit fascinated by creatures THAT I FRELLING LIVE WITH.

 

^ The first bats I've seen indoors in several weeks arrive on the Fourth of July.  What were they looking for?  Corn on the cob and blueberry pie?

^^ Bats do pollinate, but not in the UK apparently.  Never mind.  Serious bug eating is enough.+

+ I knew fruit bats pollinated, and I was just googling whether there's any bat pollination in the UK which there apparently is not . . . but there are a lot of 'Pipistrelle Cottages' out there.  Are these people CRAZY?  Is this supposed to be a ROMANTIC name?   Mind you I've started calling the cottage Bat Cottage, but I'm not trying to hire it out as luxury accommodation either.

Boomerang Day

 

Remember that the Silly Signing Clothing Contest for a signed copy of the UK edition of PEGASUS is in full, erm, swing.  You can post to the thread in the forum in Talk, to last night's Facebook thread, and to Twitter #sillypeg any time till midnight Wednesday—and let me just add that I will be very sad if the Twitter hashtag doesn't get used.  So far we've had a good handful of entries in the forum*, but most of the people who said they'd be willing to enter are still digging through their closets and scratching their heads, and there's lots of room for everyone.  Please enter!  I'm enjoying all this vicarious toggery immensely! 

  * * *

Another day which began, as so many of my days do, last night.  I frittered way too much time on the blog—here I had a given brief, suitable-for-Saturday-night-before-Sunday-morning-service-ring blog waiting for me:  a couple of photos and a few rules of engagement and I'm outta here. 

            But there was the concert.  And I REALLY wasted some time trying to figure out how to talk about the actual music without sounding like an ignorant prat and/or boring to death those of you who would rather be shot at dawn than spend an evening listening to a herd of classically trained singers doing what they do.**  I failed.  So I told you about trolls and ticket anti-technology instead.***

            And then hellhounds refused to eat their supper.†  Refused.  Pointblank.   Again.  And I hung around wasting more time waiting. . . .

            I got about three and a half hours of sleep last night.  Not good.

            This morning Niall, who is an unspeakable fiend, called for Stedman.  This is appalling enough on a Sunday morning but it was additionally appalling in this case.  The rope on the six broke at Friday practise and wasn't replaced till after service ring, which meant we had to ring around the absence of bell number six.  USUALLY when you're ringing six of eight bells you ring either the front six or the back six.  For complex harmonic reasons Niall and Edward decided we'd ring . . . the one, three, four, five, seven and eight.  I was on the five.  Which is to say bell four of the method.  The fifth bell of our particular eight is getting on for being moderately big.  Not big big but big enough that you can't yank it around with impunity—so if you gleep your dodges, well, they stay gleeped, because you can't recover quickly enough:  the bell's too heavy.††  I've only recently even begun to ring methods on the five—as opposed to baby things like call changes and plain hunt—and here I am on a Sunday morning on three and a half hours of sleep ringing it in Stedman and, furthermore, pretending to be the four.  And ringing over the three which is the two, the four which is the three, and the seven which is the five.  I cannot begin to tell you how confusing this was.

            But we did it.  Even in spite of the fact that frelling Edward called a touch.  So I reeled out of the tower††† thinking hey, maybe it's going to be a good day after all.

            And then Darkness didn't eat lunch having not eaten supper last night either.  Damn.  Frell.  Two in a row with these guys is yellow alert:  whoop whoop whoop.  DAMN. 

            AND THEN I FOUND A BAT IN THE BATHROOM.  NOOOOOOOOOOO  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.  This is the first bat I've seen since Atlas—as we hoped—blocked up all the holes. 

            But both hellhounds ate dinner.  Okay, if this is one of fate's clever-cute trade-offs, I'll take the bat and the hellhounds eating.  Please the gods they eat supper.  And I get some sleep. . . .  Am I allowed to ask for sleep without the sound of wings. . . ?

 * * *

 * Several of them seriously fabulous.  ::Clothing lust:: 

** Somehow boring you to death with tales of, say, bell ringing isn't in the same category.  The Seraphim are awesome.  Any bell ringing with me in it is not awesome. 

*** I missed out the waterlilies in the Crusaders' Garden.  I kept thinking about them today.   There's an enormous pond covered in waterlilies.  They were closed up for the night when we were there.  Speaking of awesome:  wouldn't I love to see that pond at midday.  But I don't think the garden is generally open to the hoi polloi.   

† I gave up on breakfast a long time ago.  But in the interests of both more opportunities to present them with food and the fact that sighthound digestion tends to be delicate even when there are no additional challenges involved, I added the third meal round at the back end.  So they get lunch, dinner and supper.  

†† Good ringers will tell you (endlessly) that it's all about accuracy anyway, not brute strength.  I know.  But I'm not a good ringer. 

††† Having also survived a touch of Grandsire doubles when the conductor changed his mind about what he was calling halfway through a call, and I happened to be one of the affected bells.  I swear the bell did that one all by itself.  I can't respond that fast even when I've had enough sleep.

The SSCC

 

Okay, we're good to go.  The Silly Signing Clothing Contest begins now.*  Ajlr is going to post a thread—or rather, probably already has done by the time I get tonight's entry up—in the forum for you to post links to photos and photos themselves**, and she also, because she is a Wonderful Human Being, is going to give you a little how-to about photos and links and things, which most of you won't need but anyone like me will need, with assistant flourishes and a heavenly choir singing alleluia.***  On Facebook you can post photo links under tonight's entry only:  having entries in as few places as possible will make tallying up at the end easier.  On Twitter you can post photo links to #sillypeg. 

            Most of this I've told you already, tonight is merely the Official Launch.  We're having a contest for another signed copy of the new UK edition of PEGASUS†.  To enter you must post a photo of the lurid and eccentric clothing you might have worn to the PEGASUS signing at the Forbidden Planet next Thursday if you were so fortunate as to be in London on that date††.   The drawing will be random so it's not like you have to come up with something that's better than everyone else's, but please try to stay within the spirit of the thing, which is also to say that as Hellgoddess I reserve the right to throw out any entries involving navy-blue pin-striped suits†††.  The spirit of the thing also includes that this a family-friendly blog overseen by a fierce headmistressy type named Pollyanna and you need to stay polite.‡ 

            And since this whole schemozzle began with Ajlr intemperately referring to a pink catsuit and my responding even more intemperately that I'd wear my black leather mini if she'd wear her catsuit, I would prefer the photo of the clothing to have the person entering the contest wearing said clothing.  If you are in the clothes in the photo you get your name in the drawing twice.  If you have merely laid them out empty in an alluring manner and taken a photo of them that way, you get your name in the drawing once.  Hey, I have to suffer:  I am wearing the mini, even though Ajlr has reneged on the catsuit.‡‡ 

            Someone asked how many times you can enter:  I think I'll say three times.  Because if you're wearing all three sets of clothing—and note that there can be no overlap between entries, I don't care how great the black velvet cape looks with everything—that'll give you six chances and I think any more would be bad for your mental health.

            Okay?  Okay.  I (or Ajlr) will answer questions as they arise.‡‡‡  You have till midnight Wednesday GMT to get your photos in.  And please . . .  have fun.  That feather boa you haven't thought of in twenty years?§  Go for it.

 * * *

* Anybody who has just clicked onto this blog for the very first time has just clicked away again.  Fast. 

** Friendly reminder!  100K limit on photo size! 

*** My mind is running on heavenly choirs because we're just back from a faaaaaabulous choir concert.  I told you that Ravenel not only tortu—directs the Muddlehamptons but is himself in a fancy local choir?   The—er—Seraphim.  I have, to my shame, not paid a great deal of attention to local music, despite there being an assortment of cathedrals within concert-going range, and cathedrals do tend to attract wandering heavenly choirs and music festivals.  The Seraphim give two or three concerts a year, I think.  I am putting myself on the mailing list. 

            This one was a part of a music festival.  So the first thing that happened was trying to negotiate the temporary, festival-only web site to buy tickets.  I came out the other end of this scarring process with a print-outable page that says, two seats for the Seraphim concert 2 July 2011, paid for, kaCHING!,^ bring this page with you.  So I did.  And when we got there—having parked in the car park helpfully signed CAR PARK FOR ST AURELIA we had to walk eight leagues through troll^^ country because the gate into the close was locked—and I handed my piece of print-out to the nice young woman at the door, she looked at it for a minute and said, Where's your ticket?

            It went on like this for a while.  Fortunately we were early—because I was worried about things like the car park^^^ and the lack of proper tickets.  We became close personal friends with the fellow who discovered (eventually) that we did have tickets, although they weren't being held anywhere that anybody had thought of looking.  He started telling us everything else that had gone wrong:  the double bookings of both the hall and the Crusaders' Garden where we went for the interval#, the tickets that hadn't been sent or had been sent to the wrong venue . . . oh yes, and the locked gate, so that people in their party clothes had to walk eight miles through troll country (and cowpats).  He was a tall, easy-going bloke with a good line of dry humour, and I didn't take his tux too seriously, because ushers often wear tuxes.  He was one of the singers.  I can't imagine much I'd less want to be doing right before a major concert than deal with frelled-up members of the public, even innocent frelled-up members of the public.

            But the music. . . . ooooooooh.  Except for some hooting from the organ at the very end and some eccentric strings for the Baroque stuff it was all a cappella and . . . well, I have a serious weakness for this kind of music and there just isn't anything better.   There were pieces by modern composers (nothing too threatening) and pieces from back as far as Monteverdi.  Most of them were sacred, but after the interval there was a little burst of settings of folk songs including The Turtle Dove by Vaughan Williams and I was sitting there thinking##, how can he stand it?  Listening to us when he's singing it with the Seraphim?  In fact it's that the Muddlehamptons are singing it in their summer concert that is the most powerful risk factor for my losing my mind and joining in.  I can't decide if hearing the Seraphim do it makes me more or less likely to go ahead and lose my mind.  I tracked Ravenel down during the interval to tell him how fabulous the Seraphim are.  I also told him that I should have come to choir practise on Thursday, that we walked out of THE CHERRY ORCHARD—and he laughed and reminded me that I should have a go at the Muddlehampton concert anyway. . . .

^ Hands up how many people actually remember tills that go kaCHING! 

^^ Also nettle, cowpat and ankle-breaking-hollow country 

^^^ I've hurtled two generations of hellhounds around St Aurelia, but I've never been to a concert there 

# As I was leaving the cottage I noticed that my little windowsill weather forecaster was saying rain.  I was wearing a silk skirt and carrying a suede bag.  Better hadn't, I said.  It didn't. 

## Sitting there thinking and knitting.  The lights stayed up for the whole thing so . . . I kept knitting.  Not having anticipated this I almost ran out of yarn.  Brrrr.  Next time I'll take a spare skein.  I should perhaps add that we were sitting near the back—there was a row of real chairs with, like, seat cushions among the pews, which Peter made for in a not-to-be-deflected manner.  I'm not sure I'll knit through a concert where I'm close enough for the performers to see me.  Even performers who don't look at the audience—I'm one of them, I should know—might find knitting a trifle eye-catching. 

† Do not forget the crossword puzzle from last Saturday which is still open for entries.  

†† And no, there's nothing stopping you from entering even if you are coming.

††† Unless of course you've done something involving studs, leather, glue and spray paint to the dreadful object.

‡ Since these are, however, photos, dress swords will be permitted, since if you take it off to whap somebody you'll only make a hole in your computer screen. 

‡‡ Also remember that while I will be wearing the frelling mini in public and will thus have to be viewable from a variety of cruel angles, you only need to take a photo of your best side.  If the side away from the camera is festooned with safety pins or features a zipper that wouldn't close if the finishing of PEG II depended on it . . . it doesn't matter.  

‡‡‡ For example, Didn't you say you'd post a photo of the mini and the new UK ed of PEG tonight?  Answer:  yes.  I did.  Now/again I'm saying tomorrow.  

§ Ah.  Hmmm.   I don't think I've seen my boas since we moved house.

Ratbaggery and contests

 

IT HAS BEEN A TOTAL HOWLING RATBAG OF A DAY.  TOTAL.  HOWLING.  RATBAG.*  And I don't think there's even any of it I can tell you without Pollyanna nailing me to the wall.**

            It's also been frantic.  I didn't get to bed till broad daylight, ugh.  Granted daylight begins at a disgracefully early hour this time of year*** but I prefer to go to bed in the dark.†  One of the things that has gone wrong with the last twenty-four hours is that the hellhounds stopped eating last night.  Just.  Stopped.  The way they do.  Sometimes—no, usually—they give me some warning, and I feverishly cut back on what I feed them, because if they stop it's like if your car stalls in the middle of the ford:  once the water gets up your tailpipe you're frelled.  You have to keep moving.  But I had zero advance notice this time.  So one of the reasons I was up till 5 is that my arsenal of keeping-hellhounds-eating ploys takes some time to run through.  To no avail on this occasion, however, so I went to bed CRANKY as well as heavy with the moral turpitude of retiring at such an hour, which does not make for restful sleep.  Aside from the frelling dawn chorus.

            And then . . . 

BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHCENSOREDBYPOLLYANNABLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH

BLAHBLAHBLAHCENSOREDBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH

BLAHBLAHBYBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHPOLLYANNA†††BLAHBLAHBLAH

BLAHBLAHPOLLYANNABLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH

YOUHUMOURLESSCOWBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH 

. . . but the hellhounds ATE DINNER so my life is not utterly a ruin‡.  Okay, wait a minute, there has to be something I can tell you.  Oh:  about the frantic:  I didn't get up till about six hours after I went to bed and I had a funeral to ring at 1:15.  And a piano lesson at 3.  And sacred home tower bell practise at 7:30.  And frelling bloody-minded hellhounds to hurtle.  Bell practise, in keeping with the spirit of the day‡‡, was noteworthy for my having spent a certain amount of time making sure I had learnt what happens when there are calls made during Little Bob Minor‡‡‡ because I had been so foolhardy as to tell Niall yesterday that I'd quite like to try a touch of it . . . and then not getting a chance to ring it because we were heaving so we rang triples and major all night.  Which is fine, except when you go prepped to ring a new minor method. 

 * * *

HOWEVER.  We are on for the SILLY CLOTHING YOU WOULD WEAR TO MY SIGNING IN LONDON NEXT THURSDAY IF YOU WERE HERE CONTEST.  It starts tomorrow, so have your fringes and spandex ready.  I will remind you of all this again tomorrow when the official thread goes up, but to give you a run at it, there will be a thread in the forum where you can post either links to photos or the photos themselves so long as the files are no larger than 100K.  Permit me to say that again:  MAXIMUM PHOTO FILE SIZE IS 100K.  ONE HUNDRED K.  ARE YOU LISTENING?  You can also post photo links to tomorrow night's Facebook copy of tomorrow night's blog.  And I haven't quite decided what we're doing on Twitter:  there may be a hashtag for links.  I'll let you know tomorrow.  But you'll be able to post photo links on Twitter as well.  The only place you'll be able to post photos themselves (WITH A MAXIMUM SIZE OF 100K§) is on the blog forum—but joining the forum is really easy if you haven't yet and we loooove new members.

            Tomorrow I will also post a photo of . . . the increasingly notorious black leather mini.§§  Yes.  I found it.  Yes.  It's viable.§§§  But all of you:  please remember this will be a random drawing.  There is no minimum level of fabulousness/absurdity that must be attained.   It's just a bit of hellgoddess foolishness.#  And those of you saying dubiously that you don't think you still fit into the lurid duds of yesteryear:  remember you only need a photo.  You don't have to fit in all the way around in three dimensions.##  

NOR SHOULD YOU FORGET THAT THE CROSSWORD CONTEST IS STILL GOING.  http://robinmckinleysblog.com/2011/06/25/twelve-days-and-counting-guest-post-by-ajlr/  You have two sublime and glorious chances to win a signed copy of the new UK edition of PEGASUS.  What are you waiting for? 

* * *

* I've got Beverly Sills singing LA TRAVIATA on the CD player.  #1 comfort music.

** Or being threatened with a lawsuit for defamation of character.  Several lawsuits.  For several defamations of character.  No jury would convict me. 

*** Why can't we strip out daylight at 4 and 5 am this time of year and baste it back in again in December and January 4 and 5 pm?   The farmers are probably going to disagree with me but I do not feel that daylight is necessary before 5 am.  

† Phineas was away overnight and asked me to feed the hellcat breakfast.  Breakfast, I thought, gah.  Usually when I feed him breakfast he just gets it a little late.  Today I put my dressing-gown back on and fed him at 5 am.  He was delighted. 

†† But I get a lot of knitting done on bad-eating nights.  This is okay when it does end with them eating.  On the nights that it doesn't even knitting beautiful, perfect squares^ does not comfort me. 

^ Comparatively beautiful, perfect squares. 

††† Leggo! Ow!   

‡ Till the next time. 

‡‡ Is Mercury retrograde or anything?   Or possibly Callisto has come unstuck from her moorings and is on a collision course with Patagonia?  

‡‡‡ Which is enough like Plain Bob Minor which is the basic minor method that chiefly what learning Little Bob is going to do is mess up my Plain Bob.  

§ Have we had trouble with people posting gigantic photo files?  Why, whatever would make you ask that? 

§§ No, not with me in it.  You'll have to wait for Thursday.  

§§§ Drat. 

# Although as you should know by now I would be quite capable of throwing in an extra prize for an entry that makes me laugh till I cry.  Just in case you're wondering whether it's worth pushing the rhinestone-encrusted boat out. 

## You can also merely arrange said clothing artfully on a bed or floor and take a picture of it that way.  But one of the rules is that if it's a photo of you in the clothing you get two chances in the drawing.  If it's only the clothing, you get just one chance.  So put it on.  The zipper doesn't have to close.

Fabulous embroidered shawls and other things

 

While Niall and I were breaking in our brand-new handbell recruit* at the cottage, Peter was having one of his daughters for tea at the mews.  According to Peter, she sauntered into the kitchen, saw the skein of green wool that lives presently next to my computer**. . . rushed over, snatched it up and said, Ooooooh, this is beauuuuutiful wool.

            Snicker.

            And then Peter and I had to race off to Mauncester for the live cinema broadcast of the National Theatre's THE CHERRY ORCHARD.

            . . . We walked out at intermission.

            We have, I'm afraid, an entrenched tradition of walking out of stuff, begun on our trip to Portland, Maine twenty years ago, in search of an engagement ring***. Portland had, and I imagine the selection is even better now, a lot of odd, interesting antique shops and rising young craftspersons with pizzazz.†  We didn't find a ring but we did walk out of THELMA AND LOUISE††.  It was a bonding moment.  Unfortunately it has turned out to be a somewhat unholy bond.††† 

            Tonight's CHERRY ORCHARD is a new translation, and while the reviews have been generally good—and very good about Zoe Wanamaker, who plays Madame Doohickey, the self-sabotaging upper-class twit who owns the estate—all the ones I've seen have had reservations about the new translation.  I've just been hastily rereading my old copy from college, and while all these people are clearly mad, deluded, selfish and obsessed, I never found them nearly as annoying on the page as they were tonight—and some of that I think is the new translation but I doubt all of it is.  With the exception of Wanamaker—the one moment I thought the production might win me over after all was during her second-act speech about her husband(s) and lover(s) and how she's messed up her life—at one extreme, and the housemaid, who was simply dire, at the other extreme, everyone was sharp, professional, well presented and ANNOYING.  All right, I had one or two moments of sympathy for Zoe's two daughters, but they were fleeting.  And the student's bloody HARANGUE about the future of society and the world went on and on and on AND ON AND ON.  Every time he wound down I thought good grief at least that's over with and then he STARTED again.  If I have to listen to one of them I'll take the self-made millionaire.  The student's harangue in my old translation also does go on rather a while but I don't know, maybe it's just you can read faster than you listen.   

            At intermission I think Peter would have caught a taxi home if I hadn't wanted to leave.  And I thought about sitting through that depressing ending, where nothing has really happened and nothing has really changed, and they're all still just as crazy and deluded and one-track-minded (and annoying) as they were at the beginning and I thought . . . supper and hellhounds an hour and a half earlier than planned sounds like a really good idea.  So we came home.‡

            I thought the camerawork on this first play I've seen in this new live-broadcast system better than any of the operas I've seen so far.  I don't know how much of that is the more readily tracked movement of a play as opposed to the music-driven and often eccentric action of most operas, and how much is that these camerafolk were given really specific notes.  But there were good, spot-on cutaways to other characters' reactions—for example when the student, still in rant mode, says to the younger daughter, who's besotted with him, that they are above love—there's a quick shot of the girl, who clearly doesn't want to be above love, although she does desperately want to be what this nebbish wants her to be.  But the one clear direct consistent pull of tonight's production was . . . I wanted all of the women's clothes.  Especially Wanamaker's.  And the elder daughter's shawl.  And we wouldn't have got that nearly so graphically from the far side of the footlights at the National Theatre.‡‡

            And speaking of clothing.‡‡‡  The mods and I want to test the water about the costume contest I rashly mentioned last night, and to this effect Ajlr has started a new thread in Talk in the forum, 'Will you enter a dressing-up competition?'  We need enough entries not to look pathetic§, so if you're willing, please post a reply.  We haven't nailed down the rules yet, but roughly speaking, to enter you will need to post a link to a photo of the wild apparel you would, if the world were a kinder place, air and train fares were cheaper, and the Forbidden Planet's events area were larger, come to my signing next Thursday in.  You will get two chances if the photo is of you, dressed in your chosen garb—you are, of course, on your honour that it is you, and not your neighbour's anorexic 16-year-old daughter/son who is hoping to go into modelling.  You will get only one chance in the (random) drawing if the photo is merely of the clothing arranged artfully on bed or floor or whatever.  The clothing also has to be human clothing:  no you may not dress up your dog/hedgehog/Cthulhu doll and enter that.  It also has to be something you could wear on the street and not get arrested.  Family-friendly blog, remember, and I have sensitive nerves.

            Any further necessary details will follow if we get enough response.  I'm hoping to run it from Saturday to Wednesday.  So please post to the new forum thread and then . . . get rootling in the backs of your closets.  And your friends' and relatives' closets, and the charity shops, and the sale racks at the local Goth and funky-retro shops, and . . .

* * *

* Damn.  I'm not sure these bloodstains are going to come out.^  

^ No, no, that's from me biting my lips in horrified empathy.  I remember my early handbell days way too well.    You have absolutely no idea what's hit you.  And the awful part is that you go on having absolutely no idea what's hit you for a very long time.  However, Gemma says she can use Abel, which is the original method-ringing computer programme that my iPhone ap is based on, so if she has the stamina, not to mention the pig-headedness, she can make herself cry with frustration in private. 

            She is under the impression that ringing methods on handbells is going to help her ring methods in the tower.  Well.  Um.  One is never sure how to respond to this common fallacy—I mean this engaging theory which may be true for some people.+  One is chiefly focussed on keeping a new handbeller trying until the handbell virus is established.  In the interests of sufficient exposure being achieved, vague answers to 'will this help me ring methods in the tower?' are recommended, and the suggestion that we try that lead over again because we're sure they're really getting it now should be made immediately. 

+ Since the history of the world and handbells began, there have been three of these unusually-configured folk.  All of them have IQs in the 500s, can explain particle physics when drunk with a pencil and the back of an old envelope, and play chess with the Bobby Fischer programme for relaxation.  Niall claims to be a fourth, but he's lying.  His IQ is 250, tops, and he doesn't even like chess.  He just likes handbells to a depraved degree.

 ** I'm trying to remember to rotate them so they all get petted. 

*** I like jewellery.  Any excuse will do. 

† This was the occasion of one of Peter's favourite stories.  I've told you all of this before, haven't I?  We were out of the shopping area and walking down one of the older residential streets.  Two men coming toward us stopped and asked Peter –my invisibility is not crucial to this story, but it adds just that little frisson—if he knew where something-or-other was.  The way I remember the story, I did, but I didn't feel like volunteering in the circumstances.  They spoke with a so-heavy-if-you-dropped-it-it-would-crack-the-pavement Southern (USA) accent.  Peter replied in his BBC-historical-drama accent that he was a tourist himself.  They thanked him and started to move on when one of them stopped, turned around, and said, hey, are you from Texas?

            I am not making this up. 

†† When the supposedly bright one left the dumb one in the hotel room getting her rocks off with the hitchhiker and all their money in the bedside drawer.  

††† And I wanted to walk out of the first Harry Potter film but Peter liked it.  I have never forgiven him.  (I've never seen any of the other ones either.) 

‡ I could have gone to choir practise.  WAAAAAAAH. 

‡‡ Thank the gods we hadn't trooped up to London to see this thing. 

‡‡‡ This was not a deliberately constructed bridge, but hey, what works. 

§ Also for me not to feel I'm wasting my donated book.

On varieties of public performance

 

http://photo.achuka.co.uk/p279068455/h1ef93f8#h1ef93f8

So, who's the hot babe in the strapless black dress?  That would be Shannon Park, voguish young editor at Penguin UK.  And who's the wizened prune* opposite her, gripping her champagne flute in a this-is-a-PARTY-get-me-out-of-here spasm?  Oh, that would be . . . uh . . .

            Well, whoever she is, she's going to be at Forbidden Planet tomorrow week/a week from tomorrow **  to sign copies of the frisky new UK edition of PEGASUS.  And, possibly, frighten the horses.  There has been a conversation on the forum about costume.  Highlights:

Ajlr:  I'm considering getting my Schiaparelli-pink, feathered, sequinned, cat-suit back from the person I loaned it to, just for the occasion… Mwahahaha

CathyR:  Now that would be a blog photo to remember!!  Especially if you were with Robin in her black leather mini …..

Robin:  I'll wear the leather mini if Ajlr promises to wear the pink catsuit.  Mwa hahahahahahaha.

Ajlr:  I suppose I ought to dig out the rhinestone-covered clogs with the six-inch killer soles, to go with it?

Aaron:  This is entirely unfair. I was sorry to miss the opportunity to go all fanboy over one of my favourite authors in person*** but the cost of getting there from California made the choice reasonably easy. I don't need this kind of temptation. Besides, what would the rest of us wear to live up to this kind of standard?

Ajlr:  Perhaps we could have a competition whereby everyone sends in photos of what they would have worn to fit in with the evolving dress code at this occasion?

Ajlr is joking.  I, on the other hand, am thinking about it.  And if I'm not locked in a cupboard and told to shut up I'll put up a copy of the UK PEGASUS as a prize.  So, what are the parameters here?  The first one is that this is a family-friendly blog, aside from occasional manifestations of extreme crankiness from yours truly, and therefore any potential submissions must not give precocious eight-year-olds† nightmares.  Mad, falling-down-and-rolling-around laughter is allowed.  It may even be encouraged.  I am thinking that both Ajlr's catsuit and my leather mini are going to be pushing both these boundaries rather hard.  I will also say that I suspect—dreadful, faithless person that I am—that Ajlr is planning to bail on the catsuit, and that I am not going to show up looking like a Goth Miss Havisham without support.  Which means I need a few detailed, specific promises of curious apparel on the night, before I go rootle around in the attic and see if the moths, frustrated of their true desires by an excess of cedar oil, have turned to black leather as a substitute.  You might want to think twice, however.  If I wear the black leather you'll be missing the cutaway denim skirt with the white chiffon and the appliquéd roses.  Choose carefully.

            But we could still do a photo contest.  Couldn't we?†† 

* * *

* Nice sparkly hair pin however, except that it's not sparkling in the photo.  And the long black swirly cotton skirt with the lace insets^ is entirely wasted.  Just for completeness I will tell you the tote bag you can see hanging from my left shoulder contains THE YARN.^^

            I particularly like the background of this one, which to my eye moves it from being some damn snap of some damn party to an interesting photo.  That's our fearless leader stooping for her water glass^^^.  I'm also interested that our photographer can apparently slow the shutter speed down enough to let this much light in—you know how dark my photos were~ —and keep what he's aiming at in focus while the background blurs.   Our adaptable friend, technology.  Clearly he has read the instructions for his camera.  Ahem.

            Note:  our fearless leader's black jacket is very sparkly.   I was tempted to ask her where she got it, but what if she had told me?

^ Lace insets = cross ventilation

^^ Jodi Meadows wrote:  Some yarn is definitely more pettable than others. And it's soooo easy to become even more of a [natural fibres] snob.

SIIIIGH.  I'm sure I would have been perfectly happy with the half-acrylic green.  It's really very pretty.  For various reasons everything I'm working on at the minute—three Secret Projects and the hellhound blanket—is at least part acrylic, and actually it's all pretty nice and friendly.  But every time I sneak one of the pure wools out of my STASH to fondle I swear my pulse quickens.  Mmmmmm.  

blondviolinist wrote:   Manos del Uruguay. Now that's the good stuff!!! Your perfect green is one of the best yarns in the world.

Oh? she says in a very small voice.  Oh.  Well.  The thing I'm noticing is just how soft it is, although 'soft' doesn't really do it justice, it's like saying Taittinger's is fizzy.  Tell me about these sheep, you know?  What is with these Uruguayan sheep?  It's obviously been spun and dyed to exemplariness, but it starts with the sheep.  

^^^ Or possibly gin and tonic:  I didn't check. 

~ Although if you're asking me, mine are truer to the colours of the pillars.  Maybe I have dark eyes. 

** And just for the record, I am NOT going back to the yarn store afterward.  I've decided that the answer^ to the Stash Problem is to buy ONLY THE BEST.  Which means I can afford about one lot of Manos del Oro-guay . . . once a year.   I might even start catching up on my stash that way.  At the moment it is threatening to spill out from under the table beside the piano.  There's a further problem.  I have this tote bag habit which I have hitherto somewhat contained by the mantra, Come on, McKinley, how many tote bags do you really NEED?  The answer to this question changes irrevocably as soon as you are thinking of them in terms of project bags.  And I had bought a new PROJECT BAG on sale recently and . . . I really NEEDED that green yarn to put in it.  Really.  Needed. 

^ The ANSWER?  Hahahahahahahahahahahhahaha, stop, stop, you're killing me hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha 

*** Awwwwww. 

† Or elderly hellgoddesses 

†† I may merely be raving.  It was one of Wild Robert's special Wednesdays and he had even fewer good ringers tonight than he did last time.  Which meant that three of us who didn't have a clue what we were doing were ringing touches of Kent Treble Bob Minor—six bells, all of them working—for everyone else to have a go at treble-bobbing on the treble, plus Wild Robert and Roger trying to maintain some semblance of control from the other two bells.  It was a lot of fun, as ringing over your head always is with Wild Robert.  But I've come home, you know, reckless.

            Which reminds me, speaking of extracurricular, Joseph-ine wrote a few days ago:

Okay – so this probably has little to do with your post today, but I have to tell SOMEBODY and you all count right?

 Yes of course we count.  To continue: 

Had a lesson with my singing teacher this morning, and I stayed for an hour instead of my usual half . . . Because we had more time, she had me warm up for longer, and tried a new exercise on me . . . I was so busy concentrating

Ah yes.  The classic teacher ruse

as she went up the piano notes, that I didn't notice how high I was singing – and produced a B!! A high B! A NICE sounding high B. I don't think I have ever sung higher than an A. . . . Incredible! I am all enthused now. Of course singing it in a song is totally different – but the comment she made after was ominous: "I think we can get you higher eventually…."

Congratulations.  I sang my first high B in about forty years^ at the Muddlehamptons' last rehearsal.  I've said Ravenel is short high sopranos, and I like high soprano because you get most of the tune, and when it isn't the tune the harmonies are usually interesting, which cannot always be said of the alto part.  This meant a high B.  I looked at it on the page and thought, oh, frell that.  But he's short of sopranos!  First time I gave it a miss, and he fixed us with the Ravenel Look and said, Just go for it.  So I thought, what the hell, it's practise night, and I'm not singing in the concert anyway ( . . . as I thought), so I did.  And mine was not a nice sounding B . . . but it was definitely a B, and if there were five more of us it wouldn't be bad at all.  Unfortunately there are not five more of us. 

           Nadia has said she expects me to have a C at least, but whether I will want to flourish it in public remains to be seen.  I was planning on having A as my official top end. 

Now that's been vented – I would totally encourage you to go to the concert – parties come and go – but concerts are fun! 

Ummmm. . . .

^ I used to have a very silly range—nearly four octaves.  None of it was good but it was there.  More of it is coming back than I was expecting.  And with luck and Nadia it may eventually not sound too bad this time.  Supposing I don't die of old age first.

In Which I Both Do and Do Not Deserve What I Get

 

Sometimes you don't get your just deserts, and sometimes this is a good thing.  Have I told you about trying to get my CRB—Criminal Records Bureau—clearance?  Pleeeeeeeease.  But as Deputy Ringing Master I am perceived as possibly having contact with kiddies or 'vulnerable' adults.  Another Deputy Ringing Master might very well do so.  I don't—teach someone to ring?!?  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—but never mind.  It looks nice to have all the paperwork tidy and paper-clipped and square-cornered.  Except the CRB people keep sending my paperwork back.  Either I'm not Robin McKinley Dickinson or I'm not J C Robin McKinley Dickinson or I wasn't born 21 August 1862 in the Gilbert Islands.  Fuss fuss fuss fuss.  Angelica, who has the unlovely task of being liaison between the bell ringers and the arcane inner world of the greater church hierarchy*, keeps phoning me up apologetically and telling me my rubber papers have bounced once again.  Meanwhile my phone machine is possessed by demons.  I've told you that British Telecom, which is a whole category of 'unlovely' all by itself, insists that my regular recurrent problems with my landline are my problem, despite various geeks and technos arranged on the other side, and I'm so sick of the argument that when my phone goes meshuga yet again I ignore its ravings until it reverts to being a phone.**  So although I was aware I'd had a message from Angelica—and I could guess what it was about—I couldn't actually hear it, so I chose to ignore it too.  In the hopes that the CRB would go away. 

            I made the mistake of answering the phone on my way out the door to catch the train yesterday, thinking it probably had something to do with London or parties or yarn or something, and it was Angelica.  Curses.  Foiled again.  She said that she had to have the latest frisky forms in the post tomorrow—which is to say today—or we had to start all over.  I said (grudgingly) I'd be round this morning for the hoop-jumping.

            I was a little late getting moving this morning what with one thing and another. ***  Which meant it was ten to noon by the time I got the hellhounds crammed back into the kitchen at the cottage and hared down the street toward the church—just like Sunday mornings for service ring†—gaah—and slowed down for the blind corner into the churchyard, which was a good thing, or I might've run full pelt into Angelica, specifically Angelica's rear end, as she toiled to shove a monster pallet piled high with boxes, which was also being dragged from the front by the driver of the Monster Pallet Transportation Company lorry who had been ill-informed about delivery conditions.  I applied myself to the pallet also and I'm here to tell you she wouldn't have done it alone.  We could have used a third.  That's a surprisingly nasty little hill—as the locals rediscover every winter when it has ice on it.  Hi Robin, Angelica said, panting, How nice to see you.  What a good thing I was late, I replied, by now also panting.  The funny thing is that I was thinking, well, she can't yell at me now . . . at the same time as I knew perfectly well she wouldn't have anyway.  Things happen around Angelica because she wills them to.  Like that I'm still showing up (even if late) to play pat-a-cake with the CRB when if it weren't for Angelica I'd've tied my rubber papers in a knot and given them to a kid for a Frisbee several caroms ago.  And if I hadn't come along at that crucial moment of necessary propulsion . . . someone else would have.  Angelica is like that.  I'm just grateful that she seems to have chosen to commit her considerable powers to the furtherance of goodness and harmony.   If she'd decided to go for sedition and iniquity we'd be a Borg peripheral by now.

* * *

Meanwhile.  Yarn.   I walked into I Knit yesterday afternoon not knowing what to expect except that it better be good first after all the frelling build-up the store gets as a Hub of Knitting London and second after the flaming†† ordeal of finding it.  It's surprisingly small††† but, you know, dense.  The long front-to-rear walls are floor-to-ceiling shelving and it's all full of yarn and yarn books.  And across this crowded, confusing, hot, unfamiliar room . . . was the yarn.‡

Mmmm. Yarn. Mmmm. This does not, of course, give you the real colour, which is a much clearer green than dim indoor light reveals in a photo. But you get the idea. And it's Manos del Uruguay Handspun Pure Wool Kettle Dyed.

            I perhaps need to explain that I have been on a quest for some really good green yarn—the good to apply to both the green and the yarn—pretty much since I started this knitting shakedown diddle . . . when, last February or so?  Granted this hasn't really had time to roll into true epic quest stature . . . but I can get intense pretty quickly‡‡ and furthermore green seems to spend most of its life in the fashion industry being the dubious second cousin of someone's stepmother.   All these frelling mail-order yarn sites that keep sending me come-ons never have good greens.  And then . . . there's a green that I've had my eye on, which is pretty much the right colour, which is to say a slightly variable, self-evolving green, and it's from a good brand, but it's half acrylic and I'm already a natural-fibres snob, barring things like catering to allergic hellhounds.  And last week it went on sale.  The only reason I hadn't already bought it before I found out I was going to a party in London on Monday was because I hadn't got round to it yet.  And then when I found out I was going to a party in London on Monday I thought . . . I might make it to that yarn store everyone thinks is so wonderful.  Maybe I should wait—just in case I see the yarn—the sale goes on a few more days . . .

            Sometimes your unjust deserts are at least a little bit earned.‡‡

 * * *

* Her official title is 'benefice coordinator'.  Eeep.  

** I admit that it's taking longer to regain its senses this time than usual.  

*** Those of you who follow me on Twitter know that I was out rescuing idiot hedgehogs at 3 a.m.  And tweeting about it.  

† Once a week is ENOUGH.     

†† Sic.  It was hot.  And there's nothing hotter than walking on city pavement with nothing but city pavement, city overpasses and city walls around you. 

††† And possibly the best thing about it is the dog.  Well, I would think so, wouldn't I?  

‡ Some enchanted evening

When you find your true love

When you feel her call you

Across a crowded room

Then fly to her side

And make her your own

Or all through your life you may dream all alone

   Once you have found her

   Never let her go

   Once you have found her

   Never let her go

 

‡‡ Ahem.

‡‡‡ Although speaking of  earning, while this yarn is clearly fabulously more wonderful than the half acrylic on sale, IT ALSO COST THREE TIMES AS MUCH.^  I'd better be one hell of a clearly fabulous knitter when I tackle it.

^ Manos del Uruguay is one of those names to conjure with although this is my first exposure to it.  http://www.artesanoyarns.co.uk/Manos%20Del%20Uruguay/manos%20del%20uruguay.html

And this is mine:  http://www.artesanoyarns.co.uk/Yarn%20Pages/manoswoolclasica.html