Another blergy kind of day

 

I should have thought ahead and dragged something resembling a blog post together before we went out to dinner.  I'm now so full of excellent food I think my eyes are popping from the internal pressure and I don't bend in the middle very well which means sitting at a computer is slightly calamitous.  And then there's the Calorie Swamp in which my thought processes are all lost.  Thought . . . processes . . . unh. . . . *

            Yesterday was our anniversary but I . . . er . . . I went bell ringing.  No, no, it isn't as bad as it looks.  Or rather, it is, but it wasn't supposed to be.  I may have had a complete brain failure—it wouldn't be the first time—but as I understood it, one of Colin's some-time semi-beginners wanted to come to practise.  This last year or so this person is usually getting up at 4:30 am to catch the 5 o'clock train to London** but was at present still on holiday.  To drill someone who's just beginning to treble to methods you need five other ringers—there's not a lot of point in bothering*** with fewer.  So as I understood it I was agreeing to be one of the necessary five.  It was a reasonable assumption!  Colin's tower has been scraping for practise night ringers for a long time!

            And then there were nine of us.  I haven't seen nine at a South Desuetude practise in months.  Clearly I was being punished for making my husband sit home alone on our wedding anniversary.

            I really was punished too.  I couldn't ring worth a stale pretzel.  Rope?  I'm supposed to pull it?  Oh.  Gaaah.  I did get through a plain course of Cambridge with minimal shouting but I went wrong on a touch of plain bob doubles which is like falling off your tricycle. 

            But the truth is that the ME has been circling purposefully for a cosy midwinter visit.  I've been noticing brain function down at least since Saturday†, I made a shambles of service ring on Sunday morning††, I got eight hours of sleep Sunday night and was still barely walking yesterday†††, I got ten hours of sleep last night‡ and still only made it out of bed today§ because I have hellhounds.§§   And then I seem to have spent most of the day reading rose catalogues.§§§

            I'm conserving my resources, such as they are.  Because I'm going up to London tomorrow—finally, after cancelling I think three times—to meet my new British editor.  I AM NOT GOING TO CANCEL AGAIN.  At this rate the flapdoodling book will be out before I get up to London to say no, no!  You may not put a pink elephant on the cover!  Yes, I do like pink, but not in elephants!  In theory I'm going up a little early# to hit a show at some museum or other . . . in practise I may just tie my head on and wrap the rest of me in duct tape## and totter straight over to Penguin UK.   I'll tell you all about it if I am still speaking in complete sentences by tomorrow evening.## 

* * *

* Oh, who needs a brain.  There was champagne. 

** Some things even being wealthy can't make worth it.  Although in his case it might also have something to do with the wife and the several children. 

*** Unless of course you have fewer than six bells in your tower, or are one of these brave but insane bands who are teaching themselves to ring without any help from someone who already knows what they're doing. 

† But brain function always goes down when I have to make conversation with anyone but hellhounds and rose-bushes.  Georgiana and Saxon are lovely!  They still talk back!   Twenty years ago I think Peter thought I was joking when I said that my idea of company is someone else in the room breathing.  Don't talk to me for pity's sake!  Just sit there!  You can mutter to yourself if you like! 

†† There is usually more than one of us vying for the Sunday Morning Brain award for Most Closely Resembling a Liver Fluke however. 

††† Calling Dr Frankenstein, I need a rezap, and I need it badly. 

‡ I do not sleep for ten hours.  Ever.  Except when the ME is sitting on my chest like an incubus.  —I feel that the enduring myth of the incubus has at least as much to do with the fact that ME has actually been around for centuries and isn't a brand-new thing at all, as it has to do with the terrified male preoccupation with the idea that women are sexual creatures on their own authority.  I'm sorry to be missing the fantastic sex part of the legend however.  Exhaustion alone isn't at all interesting. 

§ I won't say 'this morning'. 

§§ Hellhounds:  beasts of multitudinous practical applications.  If I stayed in bed any longer I'd get bedsores. 

§§§ Except for the hours I spent reading reviews of digital photography books.  And cruising a few how-to sites, links helpfully sent by various of you digital photographers, for which thanks I think.  I tweeted about this—and the rose catalogues—I mean, of course there's a connection, MY NEW CAMERA IS ARRIVING THUUUUUUUUURSDAY, THAT'S LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS AWAAAAAAAAAY, and some frelling helpful follower promptly sent me half a dozen rose-nursery links.  I KNOW.  I KNOW ALL OF THEM.  Well, I know all of the English ones, probably all of the British ones, one or two in Ireland, and quite a few in America.  I admit I try to draw the line before it reaches Australia.  I can fake some comprehension of growing roses in parts of the US—Australia . . . Australia has kangaroos and kookaburras.  Australia is another planet.^

            Anyway.  I now know slightly more about digital photography than I did yesterday.  Whether any of it will apply to the little black/silver thing that comes out of the box Thursday morning . . . only approximately thirty-four more hours will tell.^^

^I've been to Australia.  Twice.  I loved it.  It's still another planet.  

^^ I also seem to have two digital photography how-to manuals coming in the post.  I know, I know, but I'm old, I need the comfort of hard copy.  Also, I had to order THE MISLAID MAGICIAN, didn't I?+  And since I know the blog is full of knitters, and not all of them may read the forum, please attend to something blondviolinist commented in response to last night's book report: 

Confession: one of the reasons I like THE GRAND TOUR [which is the second in the series] is because Cecy & Kate use their knitting for coded communication. (Wrede is a knitter.) What can I say? Yarn as spy paraphernalia. It makes me happy.   

It makes me happy in prospect and I'm not even a knitter. 

+ Maybe I didn't have to order A MATTER OF MAGIC or WHEN THE KING COMES HOME . . . but I did.  Hmm.  Didn't I say something about not ordering any more books while I work off the price of the frelling camera—?

# Since I have a dog minder to attend to the hellhounds

## It won't show under the heavy cotton tights.  

### Er . . . this blog post is written in complete sentences, isn't it?  . . . Mostly?