Random goodness and badness

 

If the thrice-blasted hellhounds would eat their food,* I might be feeling almost cheerful.**  After a fairly disastrous practise last Wednesday, Sunday afternoon at Forza there were only six of us so we all had to ring all the time, I am, siiiiiiigh, better on six***, and being necessary is always good for morale.  Yesterday’s voice lesson went almost too well . . . although if I were normal it would just have been a good lesson, you know?  Arrrrrrgh.  After several traumatic, squeaky weeks when I’ve mainly been going in for Nadia to reset me, so I can sing at all, yesterday I went in with almost enough voice to do something with before Nadia winkled a little more of it out from under the bed or behind the piano or among the towels in the linen cupboard or wherever it is it hides with the result that once or twice I made a real noise and scared myself silly.†  Please.  I have voice lessons so I can learn to sing.  You know, better.  So I can become a singer a choir might actually want rather than grimly put up with.  So . . . I appear to make some progress and all of my body parts, especially the mind, morale and superego ones, go into full reverse:  no no no, we can’t have that, we can’t make a real noise.  Eeeeeep.  —In a minute I get to find out what is going to happen when I try to sing today, at home, without Nadia on winkle alert.  I can hardly frelling wait.

Also, there was that interesting delivery yesterday.

And then tonight I rang at Fustian†† and we were only six again—a different six, I hasten to add—and so all of us had to ring all the time and I wasn’t too bad.†††

So as not to interrupt this uncharacteristic glow of (relative) self-worth I thought I’d torture you with a few more non-responses to forum comments. . . .

Angelia

“the thousand young of the Black Goat of the Woods”

I laughed so hard at this that I think I did myself an injury!

Once an H P Lovecraft reader, always scarred for life.  I admit I worry a little that Kes’ knowledge of pop culture is as dire as . . . um, mine.  Lovecraft, MR James, Tolkien and . . . Buffy.  Maybe I should hang out at Forbidden Planet more and pick up a smattering of current.

Shalea

And me with no dog currently.

Aww.  ::Hugs.::  Is it still too soon?  Are you waiting for the right dog to appear Almost As If By Magic?  Or are you investigating possible new breeds?

Libby Gorman

I was particularly pleased with the mention of “Oh Whistle and I’ll Come to You, My Lad,” since I had to read it last year for a YA lit course online. It’s great when you get to apply new knowledge!

YA?  MR James?  He must be spinning in his grave.  I’m sure he felt he saw quite enough of the little perishers in his day job.

Dhudson

Why turn off the engine? Scary things mean you NEVER turn off the car engine and get out!

B_twin

EXACTLY!!!

Snork.  It all depends on your particular paranoia profile.  I did think about this but I’m a vehicle turner-offer, and as I’ve mentioned (many times) before, Kes is more nearly than usual one of my alternate-me heroines.  Unless she or the story demands otherwise (which in fact necessarily happens a lot) she reacts the way I would.  I’d turn Merry—or Wolfgang—off.  I’m much more worried that the handbrake will fail and the vehicle will RUN AWAY not merely leaving me STRANDED but probably self-destructing in collision with a Large Tree inconveniently near the road.  At least in a vehicle that won’t START you can roll up all the windows and stay inside.  In these days of mobile phones you can even ring for help.

Abigailmm

You know, back when Kes was new, you used to post her twice a week. *wheedles* … maybe again??? You’ve got two month’s eps in the bag even at that rate, according to the evil chuckles a few blog-nights ago. Please? Just so your loyal fans don’t expire? It would work fine for ‘short Wednesdays’.

*hazza hopeful*

Back when the [KES] world was new I was ripping eps off faster too.  Now that the story has settled down and become a story I’m writing eps at more ordinary story-writing speed which is to say slow.‡  Also . . . I’m planning on taking at least a brief break when I get to the end of part one:  I have to think about presenting what we have so far in a manner that Merrilee can work with Toward Eventual Hard Copy.  I also want to take a deeeeeeep breath about which of several directions the story is going to plunge forward into in part two.  I should also focus on PEG II uninterrupted for a bit.  So the faster we get through the eps in hand the sooner you’re going to be KESless for a little while.

All of that said, I may very well give you the last few twice a week.  You’ll still want to kill me, but you’ll only want to kill me half as badly.  Presumably.

The WoobDog

[wordless howls of rage]

Yes, exactly.

Bratsche

What happens when a   twenty-five-hundred pound horse

I was astonished to see this number go by! I read it twice to make sure I wasn’t mistaken. Golly those are some big horses! I’m looking forward to seeing more of them (someday). I wonder if Kes ever ends up riding a horse…surely she must, I just hope she gets to start with a smaller one!

Remember these guys are supposed to be BIG.  These are great big horses carrying great big blokes.  If you figure a Shire, the biggest horse going, weighs in at around 3000 pounds—well, these are big burly weight-bearing slightly-sub-Shires.  As for Kes’ horse. . . .

Well, we have to end on a Mwa hahahahahahahaha, don’t we?  Mwa hahahahahahahahaha.

* * *

* We’re having a major food-is-the-enemy attack and it’s making me CRAAAAAAAAAZY.  Pav watches in astonishment from her crate and occasionally offers to deal with those distressing full bowls.^

^ Southdowner, reading this, with the potential prospect of showing a slim, svelte, unfashionable hellterror in a class of fashionable wobbly sausages on legs, is going yeah, yeah, great idea.  —I do understand the problem.  And if Southdowner does eventually talk me into this—I’m still resisting—there will be VIOLENCE from an owner with poor impulse control if Pav is marked down for not being a wobbly sausage on legs.

** Only almost.  I got my treatment plan from dentist from R’yleh today.  Moan.  I need a best-seller.  I need it NOW.  Buy some extra copies of SHADOWS for the cousin you haven’t spoken to in twenty years because peace offerings are good and the old friend who only reads FINANCIAL TIMES and clearly needs broader horizons and your colleague you never have anything to talk to about and your dog.  Especially your dog.

*** It’s still what I’m frelling USED TO.  I frelling joined Forza because it’s my best local chance to learn something more than the three or four basic five and six bell methods AND TO LEARN ANYTHING AT ALL ON SEVEN AND EIGHT BELLS.  But I am a very, very, very, very, very slow learner.

† I also suddenly went sharp.  Keeping to the wretched tune is not usually one of my biggest problems.  Nadia said, I don’t mind sharp.  Sharp means what you’re doing has suddenly become easier.  We can work with that.

†† After the Treatment Plan I REALLY NEEDED distraction.

††† Hey, I rang a touch of Stedman—only doubles, but even so—casually.  Devlin called for Stedman and I grabbed a rope—because I had to:  only six ringers—and he said, are you all right for singles?  Oh yes, I said, crisply, and not thinking about how I had duffed it up that gruesome night at New Arcadia^ a few weeks back when I couldn’t ring anything . . . and then tonight I rang my horrible coathanger single beautifully.  I should say again that the Fustian band is so deplorably superb that all you really have to do is NOT go horribly wrong and they’ll float you the rest of the way.  Still.  Stedman is Stedman and it counts.

^ I know.  My own fault for ringing there.

‡  SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH.  I’d write faster if I could.  I’d be delighted to write faster.  If I could.