Bells, with stomachache

 

Today has been a stomachache, punctuated by way too many bells.  And—when I'm feeling this rough—there are also too many hellhounds.  Importunate they all are.   Bong!  Bark!*  I fell out of bed this morning aware that all was not well in the nether regions but assuming (vigorously**) it wasn't serious.  Absorbed my first megadram of caffeine.  Registered that strange green fog hovering over hellhound crate was a jungle.***  Oh.  Eeep.  Further register that it's cold out there.†  Extra reasons for objecting to getting up this early.††  Six woolly jumpers and two pairs of long johns.  These prove useful when the Black Knight at the Ford leaps out from behind a geranium and demands my sword or my life.  Don't be daft, I say.  This is my kitchen.  There aren't any rivers, with or without fords, in a kitchen. 

            There aren't jungles in kitchens either, says the Black Knight, pressing the unpleasantly sharp end of his long pointy sword against my breastbone, which is protected only by six woolly jumpers, which are nonetheless better than nothing.  Now, are you going to fight me or am I going to run you through for a lily-livered coward?

            I'm going to set my fierce, slavering hellhounds on you, I say.

            Hellhounds? says the Black Knight, blanching.  Oh, all right, have it your way.  Are you sure you wouldn't like a nice little set-to?  It would wake you right up.  Much better than caffeine.

            Not today, thanks, I say.  But feel free to stop round for a cup of tea some time. 

            . . . I was a minute or two late to the tower, but the other three of us were still standing shivering in front of the electric fire so that was all right.  We did eventually have six pairs of hands, but . . . it's the week before Christmas, we have three service rings today, it would be nice to have a bit more than the skeleton crew. 

            After Ring #1 I went home and viewed the jungle.†††  Now beginneth the Great Windowsill Wedge.  How many leafy green pots of the cold-allergic can I winter over with the least amount of extra nonsense?‡  After about the six hundred and forty-third, however, which I hung in a sling dependent from a curtain rail, ‡‡ I had to lie down for a bit, and when I got up again to attend to hellhound obligations, somehow or other . . . the jungle sitting on top of the hellhound crate was just as thick and impenetrable as before.

            Sigh.

            So we hurtled, and then hellhounds had lunch and I did not, and then I stared at SHADOWS for a while and thought about late-mid-life career changes‡‡‡.  Then I went to ring the carol service at Old Eden.  Can't you beg off? said Peter (and various friends by email).  No, I said.  We'll be lucky if we have six ringers for the six bells.  In the event we had five to begin with, and I pleaded to be let off ringing up, and allowed to stick to the treble.§   I left afterward without finding out if the mince pies were going to be offered to the bell ringers.§§

            Then it was to do all over again at New Arcadia.  Five ringers for eight bells—eventually a sixth.  But no seventh and no eighth.  Can I ring a touch of Plain Bob Doubles while fading rapidly into the Shadowwraiths' realm?§§§  Afterward I tottered back to the cottage and brought back in again everything I hadn't managed to fit on windowsills earlier.  Plus several things I'd remembered too late last night and fossicked around for today . . . which do seem mysteriously still alive.  And got rid of a few more indoor slugs.

            Finally re-hurtled (relatively) patient hellhounds at about 7:30 . . . and it's already ice underfoot.  Crunch crunch crunch iiiieeeeeeeee. 

            Have risked supper.#  I should go home early, before the roads get too exciting.  But . . . maybe . . . I'll . . . just . . . lie . . . on . . . the . . . sofa . . . for . . . a . . . bit . . . first. 

* * *

* I'm not sure I've ever recognised how similar bells and hellhounds really are.  Indecipherable minds of their own.  Mostly silent and quiescent but alarming when roused.  Needs yanking.  Needs regular yanking or grows cranky and morose.  Weighs more than you think when hits the end of the lead.  Unpredictably unbiddable—except you can more or less prophesy that they'll be at their worst if anyone you want to make a good impression on is present.  Hates cold weather.  Medical bills expensive.  Not interested in food.^ 

            I rarely take bells to lie on the sofa with me however. 

^ Although in fact I have a hellhound beleaguering me at this moment.   Darkness is having a little holiday from not eating. 

            We haven't eaten since yesterday, he says.

            You've eaten twice since yesterday, I reply.  Once at about 2 a.m. and lunch.

            Yesterday, he says.  You're always moaning about how bad your memory is.  Lunch was yesterday.+  And furthermore, you're eating chicken.  You can't expect me to not eat since yesterday gracefully when you're eating chicken.           

+ Hellhound time.  Okay, I wonder if we can cross it with Mandelbrot sets to get that thirty-six hour day? 

** This would be the last time all day I have been vigorous.  

*** Full of wildlife.  We won't get into the slugs-in-the-kitchen situation, my stomachache is enough reality for one day . . . AAAAAAAUGH.  EXTRA PROTEIN JUST DISCOVERED IN MY BROCCOLI.^  Sodding flangdangling organic.  If this stuff were sprayed with Toxic Planet Death I wouldn't have these problems. 

^ This is actually when it happened.  I am not juggling to make a better story. 

† So at least the indoor aspect of the jungle was worthwhile. 

†† Although when hellhounds finally got their first hurtle at about noon the footpaths were still frozen.  Crunch crunch crunch crunch. 

††† And the slugs.  And the Biggest Caterpillar in the Universe which is busy eating the geraniums in the sitting room ARRRRGH.  I found one Nearly the Biggest Caterpillar about a week ago and was hoping that was the end.  But no.  And the crap it's leaving is about the size of ball-bearings at this point.  Why can't I SEE it??  I've started having uneasy thoughts about those trompe d'oeil pictures where (for example) the hero is looking around for the dragon and is standing in the dragon's mouth. 

‡ How much of it is still alive?  How much of it is planning on staying alive?  How many Caterpillars that Ate Brooklyn and Are Eyeing Up Birmingham are lurking among the foliage?  After all, there was a Black Knight.  And his sword.  And his horse.  Oh, didn't I mention the horse? 

‡‡ Note to self:  prop curtain rails.  There are now four hundred and twelve plant pots dangling from them, variously attached. 

‡‡‡ I fancy something simple and straightforward this time.  Experimental physicist.^  Formula-one driver.  Nursery-school teacher. 

^ I'd be rubbish at the theoretical. 

§ This didn't work, of course.  I was bumped off the treble—oh, you'll be fine on the two, said Niall—as soon as our only-rings-treble sixth ringer appeared for a quick pull between passing around the mince pies downstairs.   This is one of those testing-your-auto-pilot moments.  Can you ring a touch of Grandsire doubles when your stomach feels like the Black Knight did run you through with his sword?^ 

            It was worse when we—even more briefly—had a seventh ringer.  Wonderful, I said, I can sit out.  Oh, Robin, said Niall.  Would you please stand with Monty?  —GODS.  I'd rather frelling ring than mind someone.^^

            Speaking of Niall . . . three service rings did rein him in a little, but he still said to me as we were leaving Old Eden, with forty-five minutes till ringing for the carol service at New Arcadia:  We've only got forty-five minutes.  We could teach Monty to ring handbells. . . .

            Does Monty want to learn to ring handbells? I said, grasping at straws.

            I haven't the least idea, said Niall.

            Whereupon I ran for Wolfgang. 

^ Today?  Yes.  Tomorrow?  I hope to be recovered tomorrow.  I would rather go wrong and have no excuse than stay right and have this excuse. 

^^ Nobody died.  

§§ But see previous footnote. 

§§§ Yes.  But I wouldn't want to count on it. 

# Have fed hellhounds.  They ate.