Lime green umbrellas ho!

Someone just walked past my office window brandishing a lime green umbrella. I know some people who would be jealous. Oh yes.

Anyway, I'm faintly disturbed by what was on the news last night. And now I can't really remember what it was, except that it was something to do with stem cell research. See, the thing is, it's generally accepted that cloning is grr bad and unethical etc etc etc and no-one's allowed to do it for humans, but scientists in Korea, I think, have made a way of creating stem cells that can be used to be specific genetic matches for people. This is fine and dandy as a way of replacing kidneys or what have you, but there's just that somewhat sinking realisation that science isn't just going to hit a cut off point and say "OK, that's our lot, anything else would be weird and belong in a sci-fi movie, so we're going to stop all this now". Let's face it: that's never going to happen. Once again I am reminded of that class line from Jurassic Park: they were so busy figuring out whether they could that they forgot to think about whether they should. Hmm. Deep thoughts for all.

And then at about two o'clock this morning, when I was still wide awake, I ended up watching a v. bizarre film (as yet unidentified) with about a million people in it (starting with Sam Neill, Helena Bonham-Carter, Martin Clunes, Kristin Scott-Thomas and the girl who was whatshername in Four Weddings) that was completely insane and yet reminded me irresistably of Lust Over Pendle. Odd.

Adding to the Marlows' saga

I have a strange urge to write a continuation of Antonia Forest’s Marlow books. This is a slightly dangerous urge, parce que it would be much, much harder to do them justice. It’s just that I have such a lovely idea. It actually came to me a while ago, when the pro-hunting protestors were really getting into the swing of things and larking about in the House of Commons. Firstly, of course, it would be set more or less in the present day, in keeping with AF’s tradition. And if that were the case, then what would be more natural for a slightly older Patrick Merrick than joining, for example, the Countryside Alliance. The Merricks, and selected Marlows, would be very much pro-hunting. But then I would be able to explore Patrick’s idea of courage, which was touched on in Peter’s Room because, frankly, I’d be surprised if he did have the balls (and I don’t mean this in a particularly derogatory way) to run the risk of police violence and/or arrest. Would he chicken out? What would Nick think about it? Hmm.

50 Random Things About Me

Gacked from allygatorkin

1. I played Mary in an infant school nativity play and peed on the haystack.
2. I beat my brother at poker every time.
3. I am a complete fanfiction addict to the extent that when I enjoy a book or film etc my first impulse is to go online to see if anyone’s written about it.
4. I sometimes wish I could live in the 30s in a PG Wodehouse book.
5. I spend a ridiculous amount of money on my hand cream.
6. I am an atheist with the occasional leap into agnosticism which usually goes away if I have a lie down and a nice cup of tea.
7. Sometimes my father drives me completely mad.

( the remaining 43 things... )

Normalness or Lack Thereof

Gacked from annclifford. After all, how could one resist?

You Are 55% Normal (Somewhat Normal)

While some of your behavior is quite normal... Other things you do are downright strange You've got a little of your freak going on But you mostly keep your weirdness to yourself

How Normal Are You?

Feminist View of the Chalet School

I have no idea why I wrote this. I think it was in reaction to some of the stuff written in earlier years which just had no relevance to me personally.

( rant/essay about how ideals of female independence etc cannot account for modern fans of the Chalet School )

Verity-Ann... see how she haunts me

OK, I started writing this after I wrote an article for FOCS about Verity-Ann Carey, then decided it was all going a bit mad. But, in continuing with my so far honourable tradition of dumping everything that's non-work-related sitting on my hard drive, I will add it here.

Why?

Why does he call me Verity-Ann? I haven’t been called that in years: not since we became seniors at school and decided that it was childish. Just Verity-Ann, of course. Mary-Lou wasn’t childish. I remember her face when someone suggested she should make it just Mary! And yet I was to be Verity. I got used to it; you do. But he calls me by that name, when no-one else does.

It’s a silly question to ask, though, because I know the answer. It’s because it’s a child’s name that he uses it. It makes me small. Not that I’ve ever needed much help with that, but I mean small in a different way. I cannot be trusted: I am too silly, too simple-minded. I must be cushioned and cosseted and controlled.

I blame Mary-Lou. That’s a little harsh, perhaps. Maybe I blame her because deep down I know it’s my own fault: I let this happen to me. And who wants to accept that about herself? That I brought it on myself? No, I prefer to blame Mary-Lou.

( and the rest... )

Forks and tin foil

Huzzah! Huzzah! I get paid on Tuesday. Please excuse this outpouring of joy, but having been broke for about three weeks, this is a source of great personal excitement for me. That was very much the downside of the shit-I-have-to-move motif of the past month: the whole coming up with a deposit thing. Not at all good, leaving me as cassée as a broken thing. But pay day looms and all will be well. Yes indeedy.

And once I get paid, I have a huge list of things I need to buy because men, apparently, can manage without a single wooden spoon. How? How is that possible? I had to stir my baked beans with a dessert spoon which, inevitably, kept burning me the further I went in the proceedings. And, speaking of cutlery, I was not kidding about having to wash it all. It was the last word in manky. Yes, boys, you have to clean BETWEEN the tines of forks. A radical concept, I know. But there it is. But returning to the no-cooking-utensils theme, it also extends to there being nothing in the foil/cling film area. Plus the spongy thing for washing up looks about four years old and probably didn’t start out that grey colour.

I have not spoken to Mary for months. I am a bad, bad, bad friend. I must call her. Oh, see the badness of me.

The boredom eats away my brain

I AM SO BORED I WANT TO CHOP MY HEAD OFF WITH A SPOON. EVEN ONE THAT HASN'T BEEN WASHED PROPERLY.

An Ode to Liss's Bed

I wrote this following the Summer Gather. And see how I cannot resist posting it...

It is a sad story that I must relate
But my bed I have failed to appreciate.
With careless abandon I’ve lain on the covers
And never considered that I’d get my druthers.

I went to the Gather, all ready for fun
And laughed as good cooking went into my tum.
But as midnight beckoned I discovered my woe
No beds! Not a one! Oh where could I go?

In March, Rachael’s threshold provided a cure
But now older and wiser I wasn’t so sure
So three in a bed it was fated to be
With Rachel the Witch, Xan and I made merrie (sic).

Alas, sultry weather, sleep mocked me from far
And pointed and laughed, like a tightly closed jar.
The morning of Saturday came bright and early
But Squeenie was sleepy and grumpy and surly.

O, my comf’table bed! Where were you, my sweet?
How eager I was that we once more should meet.
I lay in the living room and feigned not to hear
As Vikki the Ratbag took pics of my rear.

The gay village hall, how pretty and bright,
How our young hearts did rejoice at the sight.
Although we got kicked out by two One and Onlies
A few people went in – hurrah for cajones!

At last all was ready and set to begin
And CBBers from all parts were shepherded in.
A quiz of nice pictures was how we all started
Though to Morpheus’ call I once more was martyred.

We had races and quizzes and cookies galore
And two loonies went squirming the length of the floor.
But as we all gambolled and practised charades
I could see that no sleep time would be on the cards.

The RCS quiz was next on the programme
And Nell found the whole thing as easy as jam
There was woe for young Lulie (rather a tyro)
And also for me – I was drawn on with biro.

Evening came and we decamped to our base
And I chopped up tomatoes with alarming good grace
But though I had fun with lots of sharp knives
I still kept on wondering ‘Well, am I alive?’

Barbecued cheese! The kneecaps of bees!
Vikki’s quiz was delivered with inordinate glee.
We pulled at our hair and scratched at our foreheads
But despite Kate and Cathy, I dreamt only of beds.

The evening was over, the night had begun,
Dark twilight enshrouded the light of the sun
But those gallant CBBers, they needed no rest
They all had short drabbles to get off their chests.

So clever! So funny! They all were so fine,
Though alas no-one wondered which story was mine:
Yes, it’s true; Squeenie failed, she’d bitten the dust
The first lines were killers, all her ideas a bust.

Two o’clock tolled and the time for bed came
I hoped there’d be one bed which wasn’t yet claimed
But my dreams were all dashed, left out in the cold,
I had to commune with dear Rachael’s threshold.

At three-hundred hours I gazed at the ceiling
At four-hundred hours my leg had no feeling
At five-hundred hours I stole Damien’s chair
At six-hundred hours I played with my hair.

But the night was soon over (after sixty-odd years)
And others awakened with 8AM cheers
We had coffee and fruit juice and plenty to eat
And at last I agreed to give up Megan’s sheet.

Once dressed we stole Rob (the unfortunate man)
And told him the whole of Kathye’s cunning plan.
We sat on the patio, using chairs and so on,
And recreated the scene used in Joey’s Salon.

The farewells came next, and we wept with great woe
As cyclists (the fruitcakes) were the first to go.
Soon there was only a few of us left
Feeling lonely and teary and sadly bereft.

Finally, though, I was tucked into bed
As Kathye desired her passenger undead.
I slept for an hour, and oh it was bliss
But too soon I was hearing loud cries of “Where’s Liss?”

I got up (such an effort) and went downstairs (more)
And found my belongings so neat on the floor
Young Kathye had no faith (she wasn’t alone)
She packed all my shampoo (I’d kill for a clone!).

We were ready to leave! Alas, ‘lack and woe!
Could it already be the time to go?
Farewell Rob and Rachael, and young Marshall too;
Some time in the next year no doubt we’ll see you!

What does it all mean?

Gacked from ajhalluk:

Your Birthdate: August 22

While sometimes employing unorthodox approaches, you are capable of handling large scale undertakings. You assume great responsibility and work long and hard toward completion. Often, especially in the early part of life, there is rigidity or stubbornness, and a tendency to repress feelings. Idealistic, you work for the greater good with a good deal of inner strength and charisma. An extremely capable organizer, but likely to paint with broad strokes rather than detail. You are very aware and intuitive. You are subject to a good deal of nervous tension.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Hmm - veers wildly between complete bollocks and bizarrely true. Huh.

Ooh ooh my brain...

Gacked from susiet:

( What sort of bizarro brain do I have? )

Current reading

OK, see how I am COMPLETELY being the hugest LJ ho. I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself.

And yet see how I'm not...

Gacked from, well, pretty much everyone, but in this case nicolen:

( exciting(ish) GO thing )