Niall the Evil

 

I had another of my Stupid Bad Nights last night, which is to say that I got back to the cottage at a not-unreasonable hour as time goes with me and then got involved . . . in what I was reading* and in finding a certain item of tricolour wildlife absurdly charming and being reluctant to lock her up in her crate for the night when she’s being what passes in her case for good.**  So I got to bed stupidly late . . . and woke up stupidly early and plunged instantly into worry mode which is not only splendidly useful but SO ENJOYABLE.

Snarl.

So by the time I was staggering around with my eyes one-quarter open waiting for my extra-super diabolically*** dingdong† blaaaaaaaack tea to steep, turned my phone back on and checked for any missed texts telling me I would have won £1,000,000,000 if I’d responded by x o’clock which is now two hours ago, I already knew that I was going to be too tired to drive to Fustian tonight, let alone ring bells when I got there, let alone drive home again after.  I was due to have a relentlessly dashing-around day anyway, including a lot of driving, and it’s well within possibility that even if I were having a good day I wouldn’t have made it to Fustian tonight.

But I was in Ignoble Victim mode when I turned Pooka back on and while I did not find any YOU JUST MISSED £1,000,000,000 messages for which I am very grateful because they would not have improved my mood, I did find a text from Niall:  was I available for handbells this evening?

The correct answer is NO.  But I was in Ignoble Victim mode.  And Niall is local.  I texted back:  I’m tired and I have no brain.  What did you have in mind?

Niall replied:  It’s only Caitlin and me.  Maybe Colin.  Nothing too arduous.

I answered:  If you need the third so you can ring, okay.  But if Colin shows up I may go home early.

Niall said:  We need you!  Thanks!

I reiterated:  Remember:  I have no brain.

I then had my high-speed day.††

Hellhounds ate dinner so I proceeded to Niall’s in a slightly better mood than earlier.†††  Caitlin was late, so Niall and Penelope and I sat around talking about opera and chickens, and by the time Caitlin arrived I was feeling positively relaxed.  No more intelligent, but definitely more relaxed.

I picked up my bells.  Shall we start with bob minor? said Niall, all innocent.

The first touch disintegrated fairly quickly.  Not a big deal.  We started again.  This one went on.  And on.  We were ringing a lick and I’ve never learnt to be fast and since I spend most of my handbell time any more ringing for beginners to bounce off of I’m way too accustomed to ringing slowly.  I made a lot of dinky stumbles, any one of which could have blown the whole shebang if the other two hadn’t held fast, but I was TIRED and I had NO BRAIN.  I had TOLD Niall I had NO BRAIN.

Fifteen or so minutes in to this touch of bob minor I thought, that ratbag.  That ratbag.  He’s trying for a frelling quarter.

Two leads from the end Caitlin stumbled badly.  We had an entire lead of CLANG.  CRUNCH.‡  At this point I did not want to lose the thing and by golly I held my line while Niall performed a rescue operation on Caitlin.

Caitlin found her line again.

We got the blasted quarter.

I had to crawl to the sofa for a cup of sustaining rooibos tea and a slab of Penelope’s admirable banana cake.

And I am going to bed.  Now.‡‡

* * *

* Get away from me with that YA dystopian^ frelling novel, I don’t care how good it is.  But someone frelling sends you a copy and it sits on your shelf looking hopeful and . . . It’s always an interesting reading experience when you’re about equal parts irritated and absorbed.  This one is the beginning of a frelling series, so get away from me with that dangblatting YA dystopian novel several times.

^ I didn’t like dystopias even before they got fashionable.  And no, I don’t think any of my alt-mod novels count.  Sunshine’s, Jake’s and Maggie’s worlds are merely each screwed up in ways directly relating to the structure of that world.  Sunshine’s has Others, Jake’s has dragons and Maggie’s has cobeys.  They all have corrupt and/or clueless politicians and major thugs and losers in important decision-making positions.  Which would make them a lot like ours as well as each other’s.

** This is somewhat more enforceable when she’s in your lap, but I think I have told you that I tend to sit on a stool in the kitchen next to the Aga at the cottage, and the only way to keep her in place is to wedge her up against the kitchen counter and you still need at least one arm for support.  This limits your choice of reading material to things that lie flat and/or don’t need a lot of management.^  Last night’s tome was of the doorstop persuasion so the hellterror had to amuse herself by nesting in the dirty laundry and bouncing off the new, Perspex-refronted bookcase by the door.

^ Your critter-free hand up, how many of you out there bought ereaders because you live in a lap-based critter household?

*** Well, I am the hellgoddess.^

^ Yes.  Turning Christian does complicate matters.

† As in, this’ll kill any old mere witch.

†† The high speed was not, strictly speaking, entirely mine.  Wolfgang needed petrol so hellhounds and I drove out to Warm Upford and on the way back had the most colossal off-lead hurtle across some empty sheep fields.

††† After lunch, for example, which was not eaten, except by the hellterror, who would have been happy to make all those other bowls empty too, but I have a strange dislike of the idea of needing to tie a roller skate around her middle to carry her tummy.

‡ If kongs were made of metal, this is what the hellterror eating would sound like.

‡‡  Well . . . I do have an adorable hellterror in my lap at the minute. . . .