Robin McKinley's Blog, page 85

So, I Had A Baby…guest post by Jeanne Marie

So, I Had A Baby…

…and promptly fell out of cyberspace. I thought I had some idea of how comprehensively a baby would change my life, but the reality has been even more comprehensive than I realized. There’s a long list of stuff I don’t or can’t handle anymore – one baby, one husband, two dogs and two jobs are enough to keep me flailing to stay above water, so to speak.

Having a baby is like nothing else. And, I am a control freak. Oh, I’ve learned to delegate in polite company, but for big important stuff, I still prefer my way to the highway. And, a baby is kind of the definition of BIG IMPORTANT STUFF. So, I took control of the whole process, planned every sprout-eatin’-tree-huggin’-baby-lovin’ detail, and it all happened JUST LIKE THAT, because I’m such a control freak…right?

Why are you all laughing?

Yeah, well that was the idea, but reality has a way of biting you in the tush when you’re a control-freak. My planned non-intervention-drug-free hypnobabies vaginal-in-less-than-24-hours birth turned into 36 hours of weak prodromal labor (at 42 weeks gestation) followed by 24 hours of scary-intense-drug-induced back-labor, an epidural and another 7 hours of inefficient labor and finally a C-section. I was terribly upset, until they put my lovely Baby Emily in my arms. And, she latched on and nursed like a champ! Smooth sailing, cool breezes and fluffy white clouds after that, right?

Why are you all laughing?

Not so much. My milk didn’t come in. Probably had something to do with seven nights of no sleep. My poor Baby Emily was wailing constantly, latching on desperately and then popping off in frustration and looking at me with the “Why don’t you fix it?!?!?! Now already?!?!?!” look. Think hellhound appeals to the weather-controlling-Hellgoddess multiplied by about 10,000. My heart and my nerves were in shreds.

So, we supplemented with formula, tube-assisted so she was still stimulating my breasts. Clever Baby Emily figured out in about 24 hours that the tube was where the yummy noms were coming from, but luckily around that time my milk finally came in (we had  come home from the hospital by then).  And, our blissful, tree-huggin’, sprout-eatin’, breastfeedin’, cloth diaperin’ baby saga could reset, chirping birds and sunshine all the way, right?

Why are you all laughing?

First were the Idiot First Time Parent mistakes. Everything from hubby burping her as if beating a rug (our chiropractor was in fits) to us dressing her in the cute-but-insufficient baby stuff we’d been given by well-meaning friends – which was almost exclusively dainty short-or-no-sleeve onesies. It never occurred to us that a baby who’d been in a temperature controlled 98.6 degree environment for nine months might be a little chilly in short sleeves. Luckily, A Very Good Friend (you know who you are!) sent us three darling outfits that were long-sleeved and footed. Baby warmed up and relaxed as soon as we put her in them.

And then there was breastfeeding.

No matter what anyone tells you, no matter how natural it might be, breastfeeding is HARD WORK. It takes perseverance, determination, and above all, SOMEONE WHO KNOWS WHAT THEY ARE DOING to coach you along. I figured I was control-freak enough (and, hey, I’d read all the right books!) that once my milk arrived, we’d be fine. Besides, the lactation consultant didn’t make house calls. And, even at her first check-ups, everything seemed fine. Sort of. But, time went on, and she didn’t look like she was gaining weight to me. This despite the fact that she was ALWAYS attached to my boobs – well, I expected that, I’d heard the first few months were a boob-fest. But 20 hours on the breast didn’t feel quite right, nor the screaming fits whenever she wasn’t nursing. We couldn’t go twenty minutes without her wanting to nurse again and going totally berserk on us if we didn’t let her latch on. If I hadn’t been so short on sleep, I might have put two and two together sooner.

It wasn’t until I saw some YouTube videos by Dr Jack Newman that I got a hint as to the problem – slow let-down. I needed to be compressing my breasts as she nursed. Unfortunately, I learned this pretty late – my milk production had already taken a nose-dive around eight weeks, and at the same time we discovered that Baby Emily was STILL not back up to her birth weight. This sprout-eatin’, tree-huggin’ breastfeedin’ control freak of a momma was devastated – I was starving my Baby!

We began formula supplementation. We chose Oh-So-Holy organic baby formula, non-dairy because I’d been allergic to dairy formula when I was a baby and had no reason to expect that Baby Emily wouldn’t also be allergic to dairy. I was determined not to give up breastfeeding completely, and I haven’t even yet, but it has been a teeth-gritted “I REFUSE to give in” kind of battle. And, oh yeah, forgot to mention the thrush I had for about 3 months, too. Ouch. Obstinacy for the win.

Despite everything that this control freak momma would term as a “set-back,” Baby Emily is thriving. She’s small for her age according to the statistics (she’s 25% of all babies her age for height and weight), but she is undeniably healthy. She’s only gotten sick once, and that was a very minor cold when the seasons shifted (and we all got it). She’s up to eating pureed solids now, and I’m making her food myself – from organic fruits and veggies, naturally! Everyone says she’s cute and smart, and of course, they are right!

What have I learned from all this? Well… I still think the control-freakish plans I made were the best possible way forward…but, LIFE intervened and I had to adjust, hard as it was for me to not get what I wanted for me or for my baby. I still plan obsessively for a sprout eatin’ tree-huggin’ organic-eatin’ kind of future for Baby Emily. Hopefully, I’ll be a little less disappointed if things don’t work out the way I plan…

Why are you all laughing?

And, of course, photos to prove how cute and smart she is!

Second Breakfast!

Hearing test at the hospital. Cute pink hat!

 

Just home from the hospital.

Warm and fashionable outfit from a friend!

Warm and fashionable outfit 2!

Her "cupcake" outfit - I think she looks like a cupcake in it!

"Size matters not! My ally is the Force!"

A relaxing bath before bed...

Twelve months old - amazing!

 

Now We Are Six

 

IT’S THE HELLHOUNDS’ BIRTHDAY.  THEY ARE SIX YEARS OLD.*

I knew their birthday was coming, and I was going to give you a few more semi-nostalgic** puppy pictures*** but I can’t find where I put them.†

So here are some photos of the hellhounds celebrating their sixth birthday. 

 

Darkness, thinking profound, universe-plumbing thoughts. Or, possibly, thinking, I thought we weren't going to get a sofa tonight. Doesn't she know it's our BIRTHDAY?

 

Chaos, almost certainly NOT having universe-plumbing thoughts.

 

Chaos, pinning the hellgoddess to the sofa so she can't possibly escape. Darkness approves.

 

Darkness is clearly troubled by what he is finding at the bottom of the universe.

Anything you say boss. I am totally yours to command. So long as it doesn't involve difficult stuff like picking my feet up to have my harness put on.

 

Okay, you're the hellgoddess, whatever. But what are you DOING?

 

And then there's global warming, world hunger, the destruction of habitat and the waning of fossil fuel sources. And what to do about the neighbourhood cat problem.

Hi. We're cute. What are you?

 

Hellhounds . . . EATING. ::hellgoddess fans self::

 

And Darkness in His Corner. I have no idea. But this is His Corner. And that's a knitting magazine in the trash. Well, the patterns were all really dumb, okay?

 * * *

* Note that I don’t believe this.  They can’t possibly be six years old.^  Six is grown up!  Six is mature!  Six is in the full flower of maturity!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  Although Darkness has the occasional awful suspicion that he might be a grown up, with, you know, responsibilities^^, Chaos . . . nah.  Not a chance.   

^ This would also mean we’ve been in New Arcadia eight years which is clearly impossible. 

^^ Gods help me, we met Evil Dog #1 today, the one that chased us back into town while his owner ran away, and hellhounds nearly had me over, going for the creature.  This doesn’t happen.  Oh, they’ve (successfully) had me over a few times, going after other dogs, but only because they want to be other dogs’ best friend(s) and just can’t restrain their joy and love.  Blood lust is a new development, and I don’t like it at all.  Mind you, I want to murder the dog’s owner but that’s another issue.  Sort of.  

** No more cleaning the crate and, possibly, the puppies, every morning and the kitchen floor several times a day!  No more wondering what valuable possession that was clearly out of puppy reach will be destroyed today!  No more Early Training Issues such as Why Are Leads Necessary or Why Can’t I Chew Live Computer/Phone/Keyboard/Lamp flex/cord? or I’m Bored and I Want Something to Dooooooo or What Do You Mean, Sit?  Why?  What for?  You Mean, Now?  I’m Busy Now.  I’m Biting This Chair Leg.  You Mean I Can’t Bite Chair Legs Either?     

*** Assuming I could get the Machine to cooperate.  I hate my printer.  Which is also  fax, scanner, copier, whatever:  one THING to rule them all, one THING to find them, one THING to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.  ARRRRRRGH.  The Machine.  It does none of its tasks easily, well, cooperatively, or, frequently, at all.  I was printing off most of SHADOWS a couple of days ago and it hadn’t JAMMED in twenty pages or so I wandered by wondering what had caused this uncharacteristic spurt of doing, you know, what it was told . . . and discovered that it had decided that it had run out of ink but was continuing to print pages with some streaky grey fuzz down the middle and a few legible letters at either end of the lines ARRRRRRRRRGH.  This particular Machine always thinks it’s running out of ink.  TONER LOW in the digital read-out comes up with the flashing light that means ON.  But USUALLY when it really DOES run out of ink, it, you know, STOPS PRINTING. 

            It’s also a frelling terrible scanner.  If I ever have money I will buy a REAL scanner.  I have millions of rose photos from the old house.  And a few hellhound puppy photos, but at least puppies are supposed to be furry. 

*** I am fairly sure they’re somewhere underneath the piles of bell auction stuff in my office.  So I’ll give you a nice burst of puppy photos in October, on the anniversary of my bringing them home.^  When my office is clear again.^^

^ If the scanner cooperates. 

^^ Relatively.

Thorns are a part of life. GAAAAAAAH.

 

SHADOWS IS DRIVING ME CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZY.

            Okay, okay, like this is unusual or surprising or anything.  Books exist to make their so-called authors crazy.  It’s part of the system.  I’m sure there’s a good evolutionary reason for this.* But I’m like hours from FINISHING THE DAMN THING AND SUDDENLY. . . .  ARRRGGGLLLLGGZZZZRRRRMMMMMP.**

            So let me tell you about my major breakthrough in the garden at the cottage.***

            I’ve been taking out some of my literary frustrations in the garden.†  This began about a fortnight ago when somehow or other Gemma got out there.  I don’t let people out in my garden when . . . well, when you basically can’t get through the kitchen door without a machete and/or flamethrower.  I tried to block her but she feinted and swerved and escaped past me (wielding her machete). 

             It’s a mess, I said, following her crestfallenly.

             No, she said judiciously—Gemma has a gift for finding the nice thing to say—it’s just very full. 

            Snork.

            But look, LOOK!  I have been labouring extremely, and see what I have produced!  Unveiled!  Chairs!  A table!  I could sit down in my garden!  With a friend!  —I only have the two chairs.  There aren’t more hiding in the shrubbery or anything.  But you haven’t been able to see either the table or the chairs for months.  They’ve—er—had plants on them. 

And they're GREEN! (Which is why they disappear into the undergrowth so easily!)

You got that, right? That there are TWO CHAIRS and a TABLE in MY GARDEN? I'm just checking.

. . . And then look what a friend brought me recently.  I looked at the roses before I looked at the label, and started to laugh.  I didn’t need to look at the label.  I’ve been resisting her for seven years now.††  But as my friend (who does not live in Hampshire) said, Look, you have to grow her.  How many roses named after famous Hampshire landmarks are there anyway?†††

White rose! Beautiful creamy white rose with gorgeous smell!

Superfluous label.

To be continued. 

* * *

* Like there’s a good evolutionary reason for forty-three species of parrots and nipples for men.^ 

^ Pop culture reference alert.  I feel I need to tell you, since I don’t do pop culture very well, and you won’t be expecting it.+ 

+ Old pop culture.  TIME BANDITS was 1981?!?!??  There are grown ups who weren’t born in 1981.  

** C’mon, Mongo the Wonder Dog!  Pull another rabbit out of your hat-equivalent!^ 

^ Although for anyone who doesn’t read the forum+ b_twin posted a Wonder Dog clip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYZy_R5jI8k 

+ You should, you know.  I don’t drag all the interesting comments out here. 

*** And then maybe I’ll go back to SHADOWS for a bit.  Maybe.  Or maybe I’ll go sing something.  I quite fancy Pirate Jenny this evening.  Kill them now or later? —Right now.^ 

^ Okay.  I admit it.  I’m often in the mood for Pirate Jenny. 

† When the weather lets me.  We’re still having YAAAAAAAH INCOMING rainstorms.  Occasionally with thunder.  I’m not sleeping well anyway and I found myself about two feet above the mattress with my hair standing on end a couple of nights ago when there was a thunderstorm.  Generally speaking I like living on a hill—a little hill—but when the sky-giants are using your town as a bowling alley suddenly subterranean looks really good. 

            And one of these nights the new Late Hurtle is going to be interrupted by inclemency.  If not sooner, then later, like, December, when there’s frelling ice on those murky black surfaces.  Meanwhile hellhounds have taken to Late Hurtling with distressing enthusiasm.  When I was just bringing them back to the cottage they would stagger out of their bed at the mews, make the supreme effort of jumping into the back seat of Wolfgang^, and be determinedly fast asleep by the time we drove twenty-three seconds down the road to the cottage, and I’d have to haul them back out of the car again.

            Now I totter down to the cottage from Wolfgang’s slot at the top of the hill with all my frelling kit^^, and by the time I return to fetch hellhounds they’re pressed eagerly against the back window saying, what took you so long?

            Despite my notorious time-related depravity, I have hitherto not been accustomed to wandering around outdoors at mmph o’clock and . . . there are hundreds of hedgehogs out there.  I hope this means that hedgehogs, at least, are having a good year.  I fear that some of hellhounds’ delight in late hurtling may have something to do with a prevalence of hedgehogs:  but I’ve prevented them from catching any yet so I hope they’ll come to appreciate^^^ the quieter joys of . . . chasing the THOUSANDS of cats infesting the landscape at night.  GAAAAAAAAAAH.  I knew we had a cat problem in this town but this is ridiculous. 

            At the moment, however, the lack of aggressive off-lead dogs is worth even six cats to the square foot. 

^ Haven’t you bought that ramp yet? 

^^ I swear one of the best things about knitting is how much it doesn’t weigh.   

^^^ At least till December 

†† I grew her at the old house, and she didn’t do all that well.  Some time recently, but I can’t find the thread now, someone in the forum was ranting about what useless pieces of rubbish Austin roses are and she wouldn’t be caught dead with any of them in her garden, etc.  Hmm.  Well, I do think Austins are overrated because they tend to be presented (at least around here) as the only thing or at least the most desirable thing.  You go to the rose section of your local nursery and there are maybe two or three random hybrid teas and then ranks and ranks of Austins.  Lighten up.  There are other roses.  But roses are like real estate:  it’s all location, location, LOCATION.   If you can find a place where an Austin is happy, she’s as lovely as the next rose—and sometimes lovelier.  I think I’ve mentioned here before that I’m doing much better with Austins in feverishly over-fed pots in a tiny sheltered in-town garden(s) than I did at the old house, which was in a frost pocket.^  So I’m hoping Mme Winchester Cathedral will be fat and contented here.  The flowers are divine.^^ 

^ I know.  Every garden is in a frost pocket.  Ask every gardener.  Still.  The pocket at the old house was frostier than here.  

^^ Which is appropriate after all. 

††† If I ever have several thousand pounds to throw away, I’ll sponsor Austin or Beales or Harkness or someone to produce a Forzadeldestino Abbey rose.   There are other important Hampshire landmarks.

KES, 35

 

THIRTY FIVE 

Serena drove what I want to call a normal car, but I was losing my bearings about these things, supposing I’d ever had them.  I’d spent (almost) forty years looking on cars as something that happened during holidays or dog shows or that your minder drove while you got carsick looking at the schedule they’d just changed on you (again).  The Eye of Newt wanted you at 9 pm instead of 7:30, but they’d managed to fill in the time (gods forbid you should have dinner), you were going to go sign stock at Really Baaaaaaad Books and then you had a five-minute interview on the local indie-underground radio station.  You hoped the staff at this indie-underground were a little more on the planet than the last time you’d had such an interview.  You distinctly remembered, however, that you’d said you would not sign for Really Baaaaaaad Books after the oh-so-amusing video they’d posted shortly after Flowerhair 2 (FLOWERHAIR THE RECKLESS) had come out.  In this monument to handheld back room video art the demons were wearing leather bikinis and Flowerhair, in pink spandex and stilettos, complained in a little squeaky voice about breaking a fingernail, intercut with her chirping bad demon, bad demon as she smacked them with the flat of Doomblade—and Doomblade kept whining, But I want to kill something!  This had had one small corner of the internet in stitches for weeks but I had somehow mislaid my sense of humor.  My agent said, “Remember the way seventh grade boys show you they like you by sticking out their feet for you to trip over and stealing your pens?  And Buffy complained about breaking fingernails.  Let it go.”  “Buffy never wore pink spandex or stilettos,” I said.  “Let it go anyway,” said my agent.   

            Anyway.  Serena’s car was green and had four doors and was neither too small nor too large.  I contemplated relaxing but I decided that was taking things a little far.  “You’re in New Iceland, aren’t you?” I said.

            “Yes.  Outskirts.  Close enough that Gus can bike to school without his mother either having to pick him up any time he needs to stay late or sitting around enjoying the agonies of the damned till he gets home.”  She was silent a minute.  “Having a kid is actually pretty great in a crisis.  You have to focus.  My mistake was not going to a sperm bank in the first place.”

            I laughed.  “Sorry.”

            “No, that’s the right response.  Fortunately Larry emigrated after a couple of years.  He’s got half a million sheep, two more ex-wives, and five or six kids in Australia.  Gus went out there once when his dad was still married to the second one.  He hasn’t wanted to go back.  I’m a little bit sorry—Larry’s his dad, after all—but mostly I’m relieved.  The rest of Larry’s family is all right so I’m going on the theory that Larry has a few mutant genes and Gus didn’t inherit any of them.”

            She turned off the main road, out of the streetlights, a little way through the darkness, into a driveway and stopped.  Before she turned her headlights off I saw an old-fashioned, maybe farmhousey building (I’m nearly as out of my range with houses as I am with cars), in grey or blue clapboard.  I doubted there was a tower.  And there was clearly no room for deinonychus under the porch.  Lights were coming on rapidly all over the house.  “That’ll be Gus,” said Serena, “having heard the car, tearing down from his room where he’s lost track of the hours as he plays intergalactic pingpong or whatever with his friends on line, having forgotten to turn the oven on like I asked him to.  There’s the kitchen light.  We will saunter slowly toward the front door, giving him a chance to meet us with the news that he did turn the oven on.”

            The porch light came on as we climbed up the (three, low) steps to the porch, and the door was flung open.  “I remembered,” said a voice.  The owner of the voice was a large black shape against the light.  “Oh good,” said Serena.  “And you set the timer for fifteen minutes?”

            “Uh—yeah.”

            “And the timer will be going off in—oh, say, fourteen and a half minutes?”

            By now Serena and I were inside.  The large black shape had become a tall teenage boy with one earring and a lot of shaggy hair.  He turned away from his mother and grinned at me.  He had a nice grin, and a gap between his front teeth.  He stuck his hand out.  “Hi.  I’m Gus.” 

            “I’m Kes.  Nice to meet you,” I said.  I shook his hand.  “Your reputation has preceded you.  I understand you mow lawns.”

            The grin got wider.  “I sure do.  You can have Sunday afternoon if you want.  Is it a big lawn?”

            “I think so.  It needs a little rehabilitation before we find out how much of it is lawn.”

            “Awesome,” said the tall teenage boy. 

 

The long shadow of SHADOWS

 

I am very close to sending SHADOWS* in to Merrilee and my editor.  Very close.  VERY close.  So you’ll perhaps forgive me if I’m a little . . . distracted.**

            And to give my wandering brain something to adhere to . . . KES.  It’s funny about KES.  It’s real work, it’s real brain energy, it’s yet one more frelling thing that I do.  But it gives back more than it takes away—to me.  So I hope you lot go on liking it so I go on having the excuse to write it.*** 

Katsheare

Okay, thirty seconds to freak out. It wasn’t like I wanted to keep the van. But . . .coming to the end of my rental and having it go away, was breaking one more link with my old life. I’d had that life for nearly twenty years.

For some reason this part of the story really hit me….

I can’t imagine having a consistent type of life for 20 years . . .  that was suddenly and without any say-so from me gone. Impossible. No longer any breed of option anywhere. And I sort of think that getting the Lovecraftian Utopia makes up for it, but… Somehow the story hadn’t felt dark (or really, really REAL) to me until I had that flash.

Those, wow! Contact!, moments really interest me—well, they have to, since if my writing didn’t provoke a certain number of them in my readers I probably couldn’t go on doing this for a living.  Most of my book mail says some variation on a theme of ‘really like your books’†;  and while most of them cite favourite books, often favourite characters, only relatively occasionally will someone confess to a favourite scene or a Contact! moment.  One of the things that makes KES interesting to me is the immediacy of your responses:  I am, for example, fully in agreement with the ‘axe murderers don’t trip.  That’s okay then’ response to the dark shadowy figure at the end of episode 33. 

            When you’re writing a story . . . okay, when I’m writing a story . . . as I keep telling you The Story Is The Story and I’m mostly just frelling trying to keep up.  Yo!  Wait!  What did you say again?  Speak slower.  But this means I essentially have reader reactions to stuff sometimes:  She what?  He what?  They’re going to what?  Which also sometimes makes it easier to recognise a bit that I should stop and spend some extra time over:  not necessarily to make it longer ††  but to try to make sure—or at least make it likelier—that it has the effect on other humans that it had on First Reader, me. 

            And when you’ve been kind of cruising through your life, ticking off boxes in the to-do list, and then suddenly something makes you pay attention . . . yeah.  Although poor Kes, she’s off the stress chart at the moment:  divorce, moving house, moving town, financial worries caused by the above and she’s behind on her income-producing deadlines.  Nor is she exactly a relaxed personality to begin with.†††

            So this isn’t her first yeeep moment since episode one.‡  But it’s interesting that this is one of the yeeep moments that caught some of you too.

            But . . . Lovecraftian Utopia?  Oh dear . . .

 

Nickithomas

I’m already wondering how to translate the 800-900 word ‘chapters’ with their frequent recourse to cliffhangers into something that doesn’t look dumb on a page.

Probably a very silly thought but: What about doodles? Cliffhanger – break off for a doodle – turn to new page. I realise that Doodle is still probably a Bad Word but I was thinking there might be a stash of Done Doodles?‡‡ Presumably Kes is also a doodler . . . ‡‡‡

Ah, great (possibly silly) minds.  I’d been thinking about this when I wrote that post.   It would take some experimenting because while the KES eps are all roughly the same length, it does vary up to about 150 words which is, uh, nearly one-seventh?, or so of the whole, which is going to be pretty conspicuous, page to page, if it was one ep per page.  I think I wouldn’t like the way this looked, although I wouldn’t/won’t know till I’ve tried it.  So I’m thinking just run the eps with breaks between and never mind where the page turns fall.  And then doodles between eps?  Yesssss.  Or, just possibly, reverting to the one-ep-per-page idea, the size/complexity of the doodle might vary depending on the length of the individual ep.  After I get SHADOWS finished and the doodle backlog from the auction CLEARED OFF I will investigate this further.

            But first I have to finish SHADOWS.  And something has to happen in KES. 

* * *

* aka MONGO THE WONDER DOG AND SOME RANDOM HUMANS.

** We also went to Tabitha, the Bowen-massage lady, today.  This is an excellent thing to have done for the 29 out of 30 days following (approximately) till we see her again.  On the day, we’re toast.^

^ ALSO.  CHAOS DID NOT EAT HIS LUNCH.  ARRRRRGH.  It’s muggy and horrible, he says.  Yes, we went for a lovely walk in the fields around Tabitha’s house + but that was then and afterward we were in the car too long even though we were parked in the shade and it was cooler there than it was on our walk but we’re home now and you’re trying to work and it is my job to distract you and I’m tired of chicken and my bowl is the wrong colour and besides I am basically a furry four-legged varlet.  With food issues.

            Mongo is a very good eater. 

+ A trifle longer than it might have been, since in the process of fleeing an aggressive off lead dog with a tool so dull accompanying it I don’t think we can even call her a tool, more a mashed potato or a glob of congealed gazpacho, whom I would not have recognised as anything to do with anything# except for the useless lead dangling around her neck, we lit out across a field that proved to have no exit.  We eventually found our way to the wrong side of a gate declaring Private Property and proceeded to climb over/through it.  Or Chaos and I did.  Darkness, who is the bigger dog, couldn’t quite fit between the bars.  I had horrible visions of having to CLIMB OVER A FIVE BAR GATE CARRYING AN UNHAPPY FORTY-FIVE POUND DOG but before I faced this evil fate I took Darkness’ lead and harness off and tried to persuade him to try again.  No, no!  I’m too BIG! he said, starting to run back and forth behind the gate in a betrayed and despairing manner.  COME! I thundered, in my best dog-trainer, she-who-must-be-obeyed voice, which generally has no effect on hellhounds whatsoever, Hmmm? they say, rolling an eye vaguely in my direction.##

            Darkness stopped, looked at me in surprise, and . . . squeezed through the bars.  Maybe he heard the ‘climbing over five-bar gate carrying dog’ echo in my voice. 

# Except possibly something at the back of the fridge that you should throw out. 

## You want an obedience dog . . . get a border collie.  Not a sighthound.  Mind you the great thing about sighthounds is the way they sleep.  They sleep a lot.  Border collies do tend to want to be out there.  Awake.  Herding things.  

*** AND ANY MINUTE NOW SOMETHING WILL HAPPEN.  Although I’m saying ‘any minute now’ from where I am, writing.  Not from where you are, reading.  Sigh.  

† Thank you.

            Occasionally they say, You Are a Giant Rat Turd From Another Reality.  I delete those. 

††  Although in my case . . . probably. 

††† My alter ego would not be a relaxed personality.  

‡ ‘Any idiot can face a crisis.  It’s day-to-day living that wears you out.’ —Anton Chekov 

‡‡ Sigh.  If there had ever been a stash of Done Doodles, fewer of you would be waiting for yours now.           

‡‡‡ Probably.  I don’t know yet, although I’d be surprised if she weren’t.  I think she’s also a lapsed knitter^. . . . 

^ Yes, I am worrying about bell ringing.

Several Days Full of (Mostly Metaphorical) Elbows

 

I realised that one of the effects of that long spell when Wolfgang starting merely because I turned the key in the little hole was not to be relied on, is that hellhounds and I have been getting seriously out of town for hurtles less often.   Having a car that doesn’t quite start now and then is very dampening to the hurtling spirit.  So I’ve been trying to raise our hinterland level again.  Both the breathtakingness of the views and the pleasure of saying hello to specific trees (and fields of alpacas*) seem sharper-edged.  But the (*&^%$£”!!!!!! aspects whap you up longside the head harder.  Because of all the rain it’s been a fabulous season for nettles.  I wish we had an idiot swan maiden in the neighbourhood who wanted to make lots of shirts.   They’re chest- and head-high—especially when they have been colonising public footpaths that haven’t been cleared by the council recently.  Something about all those pounding feet (or possibly all that dog crap), public footpath nettles tend to be very happy.  And aside from the occasional swordstroke when/where you’re least expecting it** you can guarantee you will be surrounded by forests of nettles eight feet high when you hear an ominous noise behind you . . . and discover that the Biggest Tractor in this Universe is bearing down on you at speed, pulling The Biggest Muck Cart in This Universe or Any Other.  You and hellhounds climb the bank and stand among the eight foot nettles . . . or, of course, are run down by a muck cart, which is an infamy I would rather avoid.  Hellhounds seem to have grown up to be nettle-proof***, even their bellies, which amazes me, but I am not nettle-proof anywhere.  My working definition of a Bad Nettle is if it can sting you through your jeans it is a Baaaaaaaad Nettle.†  This was a bank of baaaaaaaad nettles.  The tractor driver, I am pleased to report, waved a nonchalant hand of thanks as he blasted by, probably assuming that my rictus of agony was a smile of acknowledgement. 

            Later, having been stymied by a field of GIGANTIC COWS†† we were making our way down yet another barely-passable footpath when . . . we met two Golden Retrievers almost as large as the frelling cows, who wanted to eat us.  These things were even on lead, but there was nowhere to GO.  The banks, liberally festooned with nettles, were too steep to climb.  The woman had the less ravening brute, and she managed to crowd it semi-successfully against the slope.  The more ravening brute was the bloke’s problem, and I really thought the dog was going to win.  OKAY, SO MAYBE WALKING AROUND TOWN ISN’T SO BORING AS ALL THAT.  And there are fewer nettles.†††

            Night before last, I’d got to the end of Part One of my latest Secret Knitting Project‡, and was preparing to cast off and go on to Part Two.  I lay there in bed at mmph o’clock in the morning, having accomplished hellhound supper and feeling pleasantly aglow with success‡‡, stared at what I had done for a long moment . . . and ripped the freller back to a pile of crinkly yarn.  SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH.‡‡‡  And cast on to start over.  SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH.

            Today I knitted about eight remedial rows sitting in a traffic jam.  We don’t have traffic jams that last twenty minutes or half an hour in the back woods of Hampshire.  The only movement was people giving up and turning through the gap in the median to go back—which, when I got close enough, I did too.  I was on my way to Mauncester to buy tea and stitch holders, tea, because, well, tea, and stitch holders because I suddenly seem to need stitch holders and I’m not going to string them on waste yarn, I’ll never get them off again.  When my most-feared knitting site sent me another sale blandishment I thought, oh, stitch holders!, and I’ll just have a look at the sale yarn and . . . and I got to check out and stitch holders were out of stock.  I bought the yarn anyway.    

             But SHADOWS is still going well.  Priorities, priorities. 

* * *

* Sheep and cattle move around, and while there are fair numbers of horses, they usually go out in smaller groups.  But there is one specific field of alpacas beside a footpath we use a lot.  They’ve been there several years, there are slowly  more of them (it’s a very big field), and if they’re up at our end as we pass by, they always raise their little furry faces and watch us.^ 

^ No.  Third House’s garden is too small.  I have other fantasies however.  

** OWWWWW.  

*** This was not the case in their youth.  Darkness was always the stoic one, and Chaos always the drama queen, and once in the first fortnight or so of being able to take them on proper walks, when the bottoms of their feet were no doubt still pretty tender, Chaos managed to run through a little patch of nettles . . . and SPENT THE NIGHT TRYING TO RIP THE BOTTOMS OF HIS FEET OFF.  DOGS.  WHOSE IDEA WAS DOGS.  

† This is why I don’t do shorts much.  Nothing to do with being too old.  Everything to do with the paramount dangers of hurtling.^ 

^ Speaking of having delicate, sensitive soles, there is my habit of wearing my All Stars till they literally disintegrate off my feet.  If I can no longer tie them on I will reluctantly give them up.  But by the time they get to the not-enough-bits-left-to-tie-on stage they will have developed holes in the bottoms.  I had never considered this an issue if the ground is dry.  Until I found myself walking across a flopped-over phalanx of nettles.     

†† I’m not completely with Kes on the subject of the terrifyingness of cows, but I won’t take hellhounds through a field of the creatures.  On lead they’re vulnerable and off lead they would discover the joys of chasing stock, and that is the end of the line. 

††† There are probably about the same number of problem dogs in town and outside.  But there are far fewer prams in the countryside.  Where is it written that prams take 100% precedence to everything?  I will certainly try to get out of the way of the single pram with the frequently harassed mum trailing two or three only slightly larger sprogs, and the local river path has some pretty narrow bits anyway.  But I no longer struggle to get out of the way of two prams rolling abreast and obviously expecting you to turn tail and run, climb a tree, or jump in the river.  Or veer out into the road and get run over by a tractor, I mean SUV.  Hellhounds and I just stand there, and wait for them to figure it out.    

‡ I did tell you I’d fallen off the Secret Knitting Project wagon again?  It’s the fault of deciding to knit something really small and EASY for Nadia’s baby.  It gives me ideas above my station.  

‡‡  HELLHOUND SUPPER RITUAL AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUURRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH.  The new Late Hurtle has improved the end of the day/night but the basic structure of The Current Ritual has not evolved.  Current ritual involves presenting them with their bowls in their crate, which they refuse.  They are then brought out and presented with their bowls again on the kitchen floor, which they again refuse.  Now I can put them back in the crate and Darkness eats.  Chaos does not.  Chaos requires to be taken out of the crate again and put back in the crate again before he will eat.  Further it is critical to the correct working-out of the ritual that I don’t hurry any of the stages.  ARRRRRRRRRRRGH.  To prevent myself from going entirely mad I bring a book or knitting or those 1,000,000 articles I’ve stored up on the iPad (because they don’t take up any room) and DO SOMETHING while I’m waiting to move onto the next stage of the Ritual.  Last night I became absorbed in what I was reading and more time went by than usual during the penultimate stage of Chaos lying alone on the kitchen floor refusing to eat.  (Darkness, in the crate and full of supper, was fast asleep.)  When I finally returned to a sense of my responsibilities and picked up Chaos’ untouched food bowl to put him back in the crate the last time he was clearly FRANTIC WITH HUNGER and COULDN’T IMAGINE WHAT HAD TAKEN ME SO LONG.  His food was in the bowl immediately under his nose, you understand.  But he had to wait for me to put him back in the crate a second time. . . . 

‡‡‡ Which was then an utter pigwalloper to rewind.

KES, 34

THIRTY FOUR

 

“Damn and squirrel turds,” said Serena.  “I thought Jan said he’d fixed that step.  You know you’re allowed to complain about things like exploding refrigerators, leaking ceilings and death-trap steps.”

            “I thought it was a design feature,” I said.  “It’s supposed to emulate the rough wilderness experience.  Like the neon campfire.”

            “Ha ha freaking ha,” said Serena.  “I don’t see any fresh damage to Merry’s paintwork.  All well?”

            I gestured at the bags under the desk.  “If the learning curve gets any steeper, I’ll fall off.  It’s not just driving something the size of Guam, I haven’t been to a mall in years.”  And then mostly at cons.  Where you could always score a local gofer if you needed help, advice, or rescue. 

           “The Majormojo is a little overwhelming till you’re used to it.  But you can get most of life’s necessities there.  Chocolate.  Pizza.  A decent haircut.  A dry cleaner who will have a try at almost anything, and the probability of finding a complete new outfit at the last minute if the dry cleaner fails.”

            “There are powerful advantages to leading an All Stars and t-shirts sort of life,” I said.

            “Tell me about it,” said Serena.  “I knew I wanted the job when Jan interviewed me wearing a shirt that looked like he’d been cleaning engines with it.  In hindsight I think he was testing my nerve.  He’s usually pretty smudge-free when he’s working here.”

            I was still holding my phone warily, as if it were a snappy Ghastly.  Serena nodded at it.  “Bad news?”

            “I don’t know yet,” I said.  “I suppose I’ll have to try to find out tomorrow morning.  The good news is that I have the van through till evening.  So I can drive it out to Cold Valley tomorrow and unload and then bring it back here and . . .”  My voice tailed away.  I hadn’t gotten beyond “and” in my own mind.  I laid the phone down.  I wasn’t really going to break out in a rash if I put it back in my pocket, even if it was holding recordings of both Mr W and his secretary.  Was I?

            “You can have the cabin another night, no prob,” said Serena.  “We’re only about half full.”

            I attempted to think about it.  “I . . . think,” I said slowly.  I think therefore I am.  Sometimes.  “I think I’m going to try to sleep out there tomorrow.  Get on with my new life and everything.”  I glanced at my phone.  It did not growl or show its teeth.

            “You go girl,” said Serena.  “Look, I’m really not stalking you or anything, and as soon as you’ve hired my son to mow your lawn once a week for the next seventy years I’ll leave you alone, but I wondered”—she looked uncertain, which was strangely comforting, I felt I’d had PATHETIC tattooed on my forehead the day that Gelasio had told me he was leaving—“I wondered if you might like to have dinner with us tonight?  I mean at home.  The food’s better at Eats, but . . . um . . . sometimes it’s nice to use a bathroom that doesn’t have now wash your hands pinned over the sink, isn’t it?   And I bought some good loose tea, so there’s at least one foolproof course at this banquet.  If quiche and salad counts as a banquet.”

            “I’d love to,” I said, and meant it.  “That’s really kind.”

            Serena shrugged, but she was smiling.  “It’ll be nice to have another grown-up around.  Gus often has friends over and even aside from the grunts and the gobbling they speak a different language.”

            “We can discuss grand opera and Latin declensions,” I said.  “We’re cool.”

            “Arma virumque cano,” said Serena.  “Ille robur et aes triplex.  I’ll have you know I took Latin at my depressing preppie school.”

            “Great,” I said, “I’m better at opera.”  I was looking out the door where there was a very large grinning grille still visible, Cheshire-cat-like, in the deepening twilight, as the thundercloud-red body faded to a general sense of loom.

            “Although I’ve devoted more effort to forgetting it than I ever did to learning it,” added Serena.  “And I’ll drive.  It would be unfair to make you drive Merry after dark so early in your acquaintance.  Your new house is furnished, right?  It’s got stuff like beds and skillets and curtains?”

            “Um,” I said.  “The beds look like something out of The Pit and the Pendulum.  I’ve still got my air mattress”—from bracing back-to-nature holidays in Adirondack cabins with whooshing pine trees—“I think I’ll sleep by the stove till I can buy something I recognise as a bed.”

            “Sleep by the stove?” said Serena.

           “Yeah.  There’s a huge solid-fuel stove in a corner of the kitchen.”  I looked at the gleaming grille and added, “His name is Caedmon.  I think he and Merry will be good friends.”

 

Calgary Stampede – part 3 guest post by Cathy R

 

I wanted to sample as many Western / Cowboy events as possible, but we were both wilting in the heat. We found two events, both indoors in the relative cool, which were great fun. One was team cattle penning, and the second was Cowboy-Up racing.

The team cattle penning required teams of three riders to single out three cattle all of the same number from the herd and direct them into the pen in the shortest possible time. The announcer doesn’t tell the riders which animals (ie which number) they have to separate out until they are already galloping towards the group.

Separating the three steer for penning.

 

Three animals successfully penned.

The speed and agility of horses and riders were thrilling, and had the audience cheering and clapping when the three target animals were successfully penned. Often, though, a wily steer either snuck back into the herd it had been got out of, or one with the wrong number got past the riders and disqualified the team!

Oh no! That number 4 steer shouldn't have broken free from the herd ... disqualification awaits this team, unfortunately.

 

Cowboy-up could be described, I guess, as a combination of a Western version of show jumping and an obstacle course. The course comprises a variety of fun and complex obstacles and challenges for horse and rider to negotiate as fast as possible, whilst accruing the minimum number of penalties. It was a huge amount of fun to watch.  The horses and riders had to make sudden transitions from flat out galloping to calmness and control, from rapid turns and stops to dainty tests of surefootedness, and cope with all sorts of stuff I never knew horses were bothered by.

Some of the horses hesitated at jumping this water, some - like this one - jumped daintily over to keep their hooves dry, and a couple just trotted on through.

 

 

A flat out gallop around the arena.

 

 

Testing the horse's surefootedness.

 

The reins have to be loose and relaxed.

 

Another mad sprint with a basket full of eggs, which then have to be carefully set down on top of a barrel. Points are lost for every egg dropped. The eggs must have been hardboiled - although only two riders actually dropped any at all.

The challenge here is for the horse to stand calmly on the tilting platform while the rider pulls the yellow and white ball alongside and hooks it onto the stand.

 

Then it's onto lunging, to the accompaniment of live fiddle music.

I think this may refer to Hide Races which took place between the First Nations Indians at the afternoon rodeo for many years at the Stampede. The chap being pulled on the hide must have been black and blue by the end of the event.

 

And to the victor, the spoils. The obstacles and challenges become more demanding in each round of the competition, and the eventual winner takes home a substantial paycheck.

 

So, two days of the Calgary Stampede – and they were everything I’d hoped for, and more. This holiday revisited several places we’d been to on our honeymoon 18 years ago (although the Stampede was new), and it was just wonderful from start to finish.

Now, back to those hundreds of photos …. got to get that photobook finished soon!

 

Hellhounds and KES

 

I may have a new hellhound system.  It’s HOT again (as observed yesterday) and hellhounds hate heat, possibly even more than I do, or at least they start moaning about it sooner.*  A mere hellgoddess eventually wearies of dragging the frellers along, and as a result, the last two days, hellhounds have been hurtled less than required.  This is bad.  They are even less likely to eat if they are not being forced to hurtle to the usual extent** and if I don’t hurtle sufficiently I start bulging out of my jeans.***

            Last night driving home at mmph o’clock it was lovely and cool.  And quiet.  And I got a mad gleam in my eye, hoicked my knapsack through the door of the cottage . . . and took the hellhounds for a hurtle.  Hellhounds sleep twenty hours a day anyway, they aren’t very particular about when things happen.  And we didn’t meet a single off lead dog.  Well how about that.†

            And then . . . and then . . . they ate their supper. †† 

Catherine

I suspect Merry will serve Kes well, especially in a place with names like Cold Valley and New Iceland where one would expect she’ll be driving in snow (that’s probably measured in feet). 

Generally speaking pickups are not ideal for snow driving;  their back ends don’t weigh enough, unless you have thoughtfully borrowed a few marble slabs from the local mortuary, in which case you will need an extra mortgage to keep up with fuel consumption.  That said, the way vehicles handle in snow and ice is often mysterious.  I drove my first MGB through a Maine winter and she was brilliant.  I frelling FROZE TO DEATH††† but she handled beautifully.  I did have a sack of sand in the boot, but I didn’t have special tyres or anything. 

            But Merry is old, and local.  I imagine he knows what to do.‡ 

Katsheare

I love that the pickup has a name. 

WELL OF COURSE.  Do you really think my alter ego is going to have a vehicle that doesn’t have a name???‡‡ 

I do hope Merry and Kes get along. If for no other reason than that she’ll become everyone (who only has a car)’s best friend. People with trucks always are. 

Snork.   Merry was, as so many things in my stories including KES are, a given.  Kes needed a vehicle, and Merry is what appeared.  But it did immediately occur to me that there could be interesting plot developments from her ownership of a non-car.  Which is also to say that I’ll be extremely surprised if she doesn’t take him.  Yo.  Story.  You’re cheating.  But I think she will. 

EMoon

. . . Old red pickups take care of their drivers. 

Oh good.

Glad you remembered the toilet paper, Kes. That’s the thing you really don’t want to be without in a strange house that first night. Brooms, yeah, something to eat and something to eat off of and with . . . but being in a house with no toilet paper…no fun at all. Not that I would know. 

She’ll have forgotten something.  I don’t know what it is yet.  Or unless she has to sacrifice the toilet paper by stuffing it down Yog-Sothoth’s‡‡‡ ravening maw. 

Catherine

. . . I am so amused by her shopping list, that covers most of her basics, and I’m with her, bagels are a basic! Though I wonder how she’ll cope with the bagels not being New York bagels… Looking forward to seeing how team Kes & Merry bond and how the SWD will appear!  

Yes, I’m waiting to experience the non-NYC bagels too.  Having been through this myself, she’ll have recognised anything that was merely a bagel-shaped object, and rejected it utterly.  But she may have been bamboozled by a bagel that looks like a proper bagel.  Or maybe there’s a refugee NYC bagel baker hiding at the mall.

            I’m writing the arrival of the SWD right now.  I have to warn you, however, that from your end, it’s a ways off yet.  And returning Mr Wolverine’s phone call is even waysier.  I think I know what he’s calling about.  It’s a whole hell of a lot more disconcerting not knowing stuff when you’re putting it out there for people to read before you know.  

GKCRambler

I just caught up on Kes over the past week or so . . .

Honestly, I’d also love to have a dead-tree version. Not a paperback novel, to go with the other McKinley books, but something small and readable to leaf through and chuckle. This story is just too much fun. 

Not, with background murmurs of We Haf Vays to Make You Talk, to shine a dazzling klieg light into the face of someone who joined the forum over a year ago but has only just broken silence to leave a compliment for KES, but . . . what do you mean, ‘not a paperback novel . . . but something small and readable’?   I confess to hoping for a dead-tree version myself, some day, although I want something to have HAPPENED first§, and I’m already wondering how to translate the 800-900 word ‘chapters’ with their frequent recourse to cliffhangers into something that doesn’t look dumb on a page.  But I am assuming a more or less book-shaped object. 

abigailmm

I wish I were of a temperament to see a Kes episode, say, “Oh, how nice,” and pass it up. Then after a couple of weeks I could read five in succession, gleefully clicking right past the cliffhangers to the next section.

But I’m not.

Drat you, McKinley! You’re having way too much fun with this. 

Yep.  Guilty.  Thank you for mentioning it.  Mwa hahahahahahaha.  

* * *

* Moaning, in a hellhound, usually consists of hanging back at the fuuuuuurthest ends of their leads, hump-backed, tail-tucked and glaring.^  There may be actual aural moaning involved but it is not required. 

^ This is more a sort of reproachful to the nth degree look.  Hellhounds don’t really do glaring.  Too crude.  

** And yes, this is true even when it’s HOT.  

*** Periodically there is another journalistic round of SHOCKING EXPOSE:  BURNING CALORIES DOESN’T WORK.  Here we go again.  They’ve been producing these revelations—with New Scientific Evidence—ever since I was a fat teenager, which is a long time ago now.  There was another rash of them fairly recently.  You’d have to run two marathons^ to work off a doughnut and we’re all going to die, etc.  Okay.  Whatever.  I’ve pretty much stopped paying attention.  They’re leaving something out:  mood or metabolism or body mass or motivation or something.  In my life, and in the lives of the comparatively few ex-fat people I know who’ve made a permanent long-term change to not fat, you have GOT to take regular exercise.^^  The other side of this is that the official calorie count of what you eat doesn’t balance against the official calorie-expenditure count of the exercise you take.^^^  In hindsight I think it took me longer to figure out what worked for me because I wasted so much time trying to do it the Right Way. 

^ Three if you’re menopausal.  No, four.  No . . . forget it.  Just don’t eat the doughnut. 

^^ Although it seems to me very likely that this is a function of the kind of metabolism you have.  People who stay thin even though they don’t take any exercise clearly do have a higher set point.  But those of us who have to run around and sweat and pant don’t just have a lower requirement—our bodies require exercise to make anything happen.  Like turning the kettle on to boil water.  If you don’t turn the kettle on, the water never does boil. 

^^^ Also not all calories are created equal.  They’re like people.  You get along with some of them.  You don’t get along with others.  Arrgh.  But that’s a rant for another day. 

† Mind you I’m aware that if we did meet an off lead dog at mmph o’clock in the morning it really would be bad news.  Unless of course it was a slightly misplaced Silent Wonder Dog. 

†† I can’t decide whether to hope that I am on to something, or that I’m not.  Regular last-thing hurtles, even short(ish) ones, are not going to assist my always somewhat vexed ability to live in the real world.  And what about winter?  

††† No, I had the roof on.  But it didn’t actually do much except creak and wreck my panoramic view. 

‡ Which I suppose might involve driving to the local mortuary, stopping, and refusing to start again until his rear shock absorbers are sufficiently compressed. 

‡‡ Okay, she could have had to name it herself.  But she didn’t.

‡‡‡ Somebody explain to me why a small retrosnub (retrosnub?) icosico . . . um . . . thing is Yog-Sothoth (geometry).  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yog_sothoth_(geometry) 

§ Aside from the Eatsmobile, Rose Manor, Caedmon, Merry, the SWD, etc. . . .

My Sad Bell Free August Continues

 

So last night Gemma and I went to a little village outside Greater Footling to ring handbells with Albert and Leandra.*  I haven’t had a (plausible) chance to ring major—eight—on handbells in yonks and while we only rang plain courses of plain bob it was thrilling, not least because I actually rang like a person who knew what she was doing.  I rang both the difficult inside pairs, the 3-4 and the 5-6, and lived.  And I hope I wouldn’t go on about it in this unattractive way except that it was VERY GOOD FOR MORALE to do something bell-related with/in front of Albert and Leandra that I COULD DO, since I’m still 90% a disaster at the abbey.**   This veneer of competence will all go away horribly as soon as we try to ring a touch, however.  Ringing plain courses we were relatively speaking level:  Gemma and I are still learning, but Albert and Leandra haven’t done it in a while and were rusty enough they made the occasional mistake.  But they’re extremely good and extremely experienced ringers—slightly less so on handbells, but not all that frelling much less so.  A few more plain courses and they’ll be ready for anything.  I won’t.  It is taking me FOREVER to learn to ring touches in bob minor . . . it’s not going to be any better in major.  Sigh.  However, last night was excellent.***

            So today I had off from the ringing thing.  Thursday is Niall, Colin and my usual handbell evening, but Niall was going to be pretending to be a normal civilised human being and doing some frelling cultural thing with his wife who thinks he rings too much.†  Since I had all afternoon and evening to work uninterrupted, I permitted myself a little burst of badly overdue remedial gardening after hellhounds and I got back from the morning’s hurtle.  Maybe it wasn’t such a little burst.  Well, it was very overdue and one thing led to another, or maybe I should say that I couldn’t get to x till I’d hacked my way through y, and meanwhile I’d got entangled with z.††  Also it’s HOT again so I have to water everything.  Feh. †††  So I got down to the mews late for lunch but feeling all mellow and relaxed‡ and my SHADOWS focus was all clear and unwavering and . . .

            The phone rang.  It was about four o’clock.  We usually meet at 4:45.  Hi, said Niall.

            Hi, I said suspiciously.

            I’m not going out tonight after all, he said.  And Colin’s free.  Are you?  Can you ring handbells?

            I looked at my computer.  There’s always later.

            So we rang handbells.  And they just had to put up with the fact that the biscuits at the tea break were sub standard, because I wasn’t expecting to be hosting handbells today.

            I am not ringing anything anywhere tomorrow. 

* * *

* Gemma drove.  I wouldn’t be able to drive that far and ring.  She was a bit late—I was meeting her at her house, and comfortably waiting knitting in her sitting room^ and being gloriously entertained by her theatrical son^^—and rather than go through the whole complex urban parking thing she decided to take the vehicle she was already in, which was the family camper van.^^^  It’s not large as such things go but you are higher up than in an ordinary car and I kept thinking of Merry.  Thus does life reproduce . . . er . . . blog serials. # 

^ I have begun Second Front of First Cardie.  I am going to do a proper Knitting Blog here one day soon.  Fiona’s and my adventure was a teaser.  

^^ It was rather a pity to have to leave for mere bell ringing.  But obsession is like that. 

^^^ She and her husband had taken it on a picnic.  I’d like picnics better myself if I got to bring my kitchen along.  

# Vikkik wrote:

Okay, now I NEED a t-shirt that says “If I wanted your opinion I would read your entrails!”

Boddhi_d

Me, too!! Something with a looming Lovecraftian graphic.

EMoon

I’ve seen that T-shirt at larger SF conventions! Don’t remember who the dealer was, though. If I see it again in a few weeks (going to WorldCon in Chicago) I’ll grab a card from the dealer and post it here for those who want one.

PamAdams

I’ve actually got the ‘Entrails’ T-shirt. We do need ‘GerbilCon 2008′ shirts, though…… 

 

Peter laughed in a dry and sardonic manner when he saw this. For some reason.

Yes.  I have one too.  A friend, who reads the blog and can identify herself if she wishes to, saw it at a convention and for some reason immediately thought of me.  I agree that some Lovecraftian graphics might have been nice.+

            I’m a bit relieved that no one has immediately posted about GerbilCon, one of the oldest, most reliable and best-attended cons in the entire SF&F world, Ursula LeGuin/William Gibson/HG Wells was the GoH in 2008, Kestrel who?  Get with the programme, McKinley.  I did (nervously) google GerbilCon, but gerbil, I mean google, and I are not always best friends.  I dunno, should we design a GerbilCon 2008 t shirt after I turn SHADOWS in and clear off the auction backlog?  Although, speaking of getting with the programme, I think most of the lumps have been hammered out now, but in KES’ first couple of months there seemed to be a surprising number of readers who didn’t immediately twig it was a story++.  I know I didn’t make it easy, but . . . well, I thought it was easy.  A friend suggested creating a t shirt that says:  KES.  IT’S FICTION, BITCHES.  Which I totally want.  

+ All you knitters are aware of all the awesome Lovecraft possibilities there are out there?  A lot of them on Ravelry.  A friend knitted me a Cthulhu—I don’t immediately see it here, I can’t remember where she found the pattern—and she said the best thing about it was knitting on the bus, having someone ask her what she was making, and being able to give the truthful response:  a tentacle. 

http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/search#query=Lovecraft

http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/search#page=1&view=captioned_thumbs&query=Cthulhu&sort=best 

++ I, however, have been living in the so-called real world too long.  There was a wild noise from the corner of the kitchen I have my back to as I sit at the table at the mews.  I did not think, oh unholy gods it’s the zombie apocalypse!  I thought, oh unholy gods it’s a rat! 

            It was, in fact, the cheap fizz in the refrigerator blowing its stopper.  There is a clear answer to this:  drink more.  

** Gemma, who believes that support and encouragement are the answer to everything, keeps insisting that all I have to do is keep coming to practice—which is pretty much the one thing I can do reliably—and everything will be fine.  She did admit, however, to chasing after me on Sunday for that frelling quarter because she thought it would be good for me.

            Well.  She was right. 

*** They also have a great house.  It reminds me of mine for some reason.  Something to do with the Too Full of Interesting Stuff.^ 

^ Theirs is bigger though.  Everybody’s house is bigger than mine.  But then I have a second/third in reserve.+ 

+ Most people don’t have a backlist problem. 

† Penelope rarely goes to extra practises at other towers, and doesn’t ring handbells at all.  Incredible. 

†† I also owe you a gardening blog.  Soon. 

††† It is a curious fact that you have more pots that need watering when there is no rain.  It’s one of those little mysteries of physics. 

‡ Well, let’s not get carried away here.  For example, we met two St Bernards while we were out hurtling today.  We got past the actual dogs without incident^ but . . .the piles of dog crap on the footpath were knee high.  Now an ancillary reason to my having no desire to have St Bernards is the idea of trying to pick up crap that needs both hands.  Picking up hellhound crap is not a joyous life-affirming experience but it’s just not a—ahem—big deal.  St Bernards . . . well.  But if you have a St Bernard you frelling PICK UP AFTER IT.  

^Fortunately.  One St Bernard head is the size of an entire hellhound