Pause

I know I haven't posted anything since Thursday (and that was nothing much) but I seem to have one of those life things again.

I do have some news to impart but it'll take too long to tell you all now as I have to get ready to go out. But fear not, this is the last night of socialising before my life becomes repleat with nights in clutching a bottle (or several) of wine and ignoring the phone.

Anyway, must go as I can smell my pizza burning.




Bugger.

Older

Next month, this body and half it's mind will be twentyeleven. Despite much of our twentytenth year (I know, technically we're already in our twentyeleventh year) attempting to resist time's inexorable flow, it appears that we've failed. Time is continuing regardless.

Yesterday, however, we found ourself looking forward to starting our twentytwelfth year. The only reason for this line of thinking was seeing two books we want that would be ideal presents to give us. They are: How Not To Decorate by the lovely Colin & Justin, and The City Garden Bible by the adorable Matt James.

Aren't we easily pleased!

We've already started hinting, having let slip which books we saw where and how much they were, to the most convenient friend. It is our hope that he will get one (probably the cheapest) and inform our mutual couple-friends that they could get the other as they are bound to ask him what we want.

For anyone out there who has an excess of money they want to get rid of, we also want a new house! Just a thought...

Oh, what a world

Just got back from Betty West's. She's having a terrible time at the moment. Not only are her sinuses playing up but her sister was recently killed when a shed fell on her.

It was her own silly fault. She was wandering about behind the Homebase lorry that was delivering a shed to her neighbours, poking her nose in and tutting, when one of the ropes snapped and brought the whole thing down on her. Interfering old baggage.

Anyway, the cemetery she's buried in was having some building work done on an adjacent plot of land that it owned and the shortsighted official accidently had her buried in the foundations.

Now she's got a house on her!

Betty's trying to sort out all the administrative problems but, like I said, she's in no fit state really. That's why I was visiting her. To see if I could help.

To make matters worse, the neighbour's kid was trying to break into her house. And she had this annoying, yappy little dog that went for her helper monkey! Betty said that this girl was hiding out in her greenhouse, scoffing her face with her strawberries and leaving Lion bar wrappers all over the garden. She even took a swing at Betty with her own watering can! Little hooligan.

I got around there just in time to thwart that despicable child from soaking Betty with a water balloon.

She'd already thrown the balloon through an open window so I just changed the trajectory and it boomeranged back the way it came. I also took the liberty of transposing the water in the balloon with the urine in the girl's bladder. She must've really needed to go because there was loads in there!

The look on her face was priceless when the balloon hit her right in it. Then it doubled in value when she realised she was soaked in piss.

Just when she was about to hurl a string of abuse, Betty, who'd pulled herself together a bit, launched a spell at her. The girl's face fell. Her mouth making an 'o' of surprise. She stood like that for what seemed like an eternity before slowly and carefully sidling off the property, clutching her backside.

"What did you hit her with?" I asked Betty.

"The only spell that came to mind. The one to loosen a ring that's stuck on a finger." And Betty turned to me and grinned a gummy grin. "But I missed her finger. I aimed a little low..."

False start

I did just post another quiz thing but it mucked up the layout of my Blog so I deleted it. I still haven't got the hang of all this HTML rubbish yet, although I have learned how to do links in comments.

For anyone who's curious, it was a "Which sci-fi crew would you best fit in" quiz that I found at Bronwen's (on my first visit I may add). I'd do best with the crew of Moya, which suits me as I could serve under John Crichton (Ben Browder).

I only posted it because I couldn't be buggered with posting something of my own. Now I've got to think of something. Or remember something that may or may not have happened to me.

I'll do it later. Right now I've got to clear up another mound of gargoyle crap. And I'm sure that bloody bird's been hanging around the compost heap.


Bugger.

Walking Through Rain And Not Getting Wet

Since "dropping in" to my Host and amalgamating our psyches, I've found myself pondering the science behind the magic I do. I think this is because, in general, the male-wired brain is more adept at technical matters than the average female-wired brain. Of course, this means that the male-wired brain has sacrificed space used by more useful applications like emotions, common sense, intelligence (not to be confused with knowledge) and social graces, to name but a few. There are exceptions but as this post is not about such matters I'll get on with the point.

Not getting wet in the rain is an aquired skill.

Yes you could stay indoors. Or put an umbrella up if you simply must go out. But how about not bothering with that cumbersome and unflattering object?

This is how:

Aim yourself for the closest raindrop, spin all parts of yourself counterclockwise (very important this - never go clockwise) through spacetime until you spread out between the drops and start curling back towards your epicentre. Within a couple of seconds you should have caught the rhythm of the rain and be able to manoueuver with relative ease through the shower.

An added bonus is that to an observer you will look just like your normal self rather than a multi-tendrilled thing in the rain. This is because the light bouncing off your tendrils as they curl back around the drops actually gets refracted by passing through the raindrops. The refracted light naturally coalesces at your epicentre producing an image of your normal-spacetime self. You must remember to keep all parts of you within the rain because any tendrils out of the shower cannot have their images refracted back. This could cause some... concern, shall we say, to passers by.

Warning: Don't try this if you're easily distracted. An unplanned exit from counterspin spacetime could leave you spread out across the countryside and give a whole new meaning to the term "pull yourself together".

There. My work here is done!

And for those of you concerned about my suddenly aquired social life: fear not. It was for one night only. Pizza, wine and a DVD beckons tonight. And I've sorted the subtitles problem. It seems there's a button on the remote that can turn them on (or off) despite specifying no subtitles in the set up menu. Ridiculous...

Coming soon

Walking through the rain today and not getting wet, naturally, I realised that although magic was working, it was in a scientific way. So, my next post will include the science of Walking Through Rain And Not Getting Wet.

I'll probably do it tomorrow because I'm going out shortly. I seem to have a social life at the moment...

I didn't burn him...

I know what it looks like but Pete isn't dead.

I didn't finish him off with that fireball just because he has a Bitch Girlfriend TM*, who's soon to be a Bitch Wife TM**.

Honestly.

I'm happy that he's happy. Really. I just haven't got the right innards, or outers(outards?) for that matter, to please him. I did once upon a time but that's another story...

Anyway, I've got Naked Knight now, I don't need Pete. NK can do some amazing things with that armour of his! Well, when I say "got" I may be making it a bit clearer than it actually is.
We're not an actual couple (the bastard) - Ooh, I didn't type that. Psychokinesis is playing up again. At least subconscious had the decency to put it in brackets.

Hang on.

Was it subconscious or was it the Host? Or was it the Host's subconscious? See, that's the trouble with taking over someone else's body and mind. Not only does one get them but one has to cope with one's own subconscious and the host's subconscious, too.

This is all rather tiring and I've gone right off the point which was probably nonexistant anyway.

I'm off to drink more wine!

* A TOTAL Bitch. Smug in her cosy boyfriended world. She lets others see her smugness because they all fancy her gorgeous boyfriend who she doesn't deserve. Probably. She can't actually love him, can she? An ice-hearted cyborg like her can't have actual feelings can she? Can she? And it's so not because he's straight. Oh no...

** See above. But she's probably less smug and gloating as her competitiveness has worn off or something or nothing. Waaaaahh! Wish I was a beautiful straight girl. Maybe there's a spell hanging around here...

Crikey. Must pull myself together. Sounding like a right bitter, jealous old hag.

Brrreeeport - see Tazzy & Piggy.

Uh oh. Found out!

A van pulls up at the back of the house just as I'm about to land on the lawn, sans broom. I hover near the top of the cherry tree to ensure the driver doesn't see me when he gets out.

Oh Christ! It's Pete, my sexy neighbour. How unfortunately distracting.

My concentration now lost, I don't quite manage to stifle a gasp of surprise as my telekinetic wings fade and I fall out of the sky. Pete looks up as I plummet towards him.

"What the fuck...?" is his shocked exclamation as I smack down hard on to the tarmac in front of him.

"Ow. Shit! Fuck! Wank! Owwww..."

Then he recognises me and steps closer. "Are you all right, mate?" he asks hesitantly. "Where the Hell did you come from?"

Oh fuck. I look up to see Pete standing over me. Panic sets in and I look around wildly, desperately seeking inspiration for a reason how I came to be in a heap at his feet. "Uhh... I fell off the garage roof?" I finally mumble, unconvincingly. Pete just looks at me with disbelief.

"I don't think so" he says. "You're in the middle of the road, miles away from the garage. Here, let me help you up" and he reaches toward me.

I grab his hand. My first physical contact with him! His hand feels warm and manly and it makes me go all tingly. Mmmmm...

"Ow, fuck!" I spit again as he pulls me up. My hands and arms are covered in cuts and scrapes and blood is smeared all over them. There's a big hole in the knee of my jeans, the edges of which are soaking up the blood from the cuts and gouges there.

Hang on. My feet aren't connected to the ground! I'm towering over Pete and slowly drifting to the right. This isn't right. The look on Pete's face is a picture: slack jaw and wide eyes. Shit! I start thrashing wildly in mid-air then gravity kicks in and I fall at his feet again, but this time I manage to land on my feet.

Pete is staring at me with astonishment. "How the Hell did you do that?"

"Um. Do what?" I ask sheepishly, my eyes darting about to see if anyone else was around who might have seen my little gravitic transgression.

"You're not like an X-Man or something, are you?" he eventually asks, still staring at me.

"No. No, nothing like that. Well, a bit, I suppose" and I resign myself to the fact that I won't be able to explain this away satisfactorily. "I'm a witch. Or warlock. Whichever suits you best. Not a wizard, though. Definitely not!"

"Fuck."

"I'm not very good at it yet. The whole flying without a broom malarkey - as you've just witnessed."

"Yeah."

At this point there is an interminable silence that seems to go on for hours but which probably only lasted about five seconds.

"Uh... I don't suppose you could keep this to yourself, could you?" I ask, plaintively. "My life'll be Hell if anyone finds out. Well, if the wrong people found out."

"What? Oh. Oh, OK. No one'd believe me anyway. Fuckin' Hell!" Pete stares a bit more, blinks, then a grin appears. "So. What else can you do?"

"What else?" My mind suddenly goes blank. "Umm..." Still blank. "Umm..." Ooh, here we go! "Well, I can walk in the rain and not get wet. Or hardly get wet. Uh... Oh! I can make things revert to what they used to be."

Pete now looks blank. "What?"

"You know. Like stones. I can make a stone revert to lava, or a plank of wood revert to a tree. That sort of thing. It's very difficult, though."

"Can you do something now?"

"What? Wasn't the whole gravity disobeying enough?"

"Oh, come on."

"Oh, OK." I think for a bit then hold out my hand, palm upwards, concentrating intently. "I can usually do this really easily but with you here (being all sexy and gorgeous) I'm a bit distracted. Ooh, here we go..." A small green flame appears a centimeter or so above my palm. It flickers for a bit then stabilises into a steadily burning, 10cm flame.

"Wow!" Pete leans in closer to feel the heat and his fingers brush up against mine.

A shock like electricity jolts through my hand and into my whole body. The flame explodes into a fireball that blasts upwards into the evening sky leaving a trail of incandescence behind it.




Bugger.






Forgetting all that for a moment: I've managed to get a hit counter. Only it looks a bit pathetic as it shows one hit. Me.

Evening from Hell

* snap *

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!

* breathes *

Don't mind me. Just having another of those "little moments" with the DVD player. Hold on for a moment, just got to . . .

Fuuuuuuuuuuuucckk!

Why does that Christing shitting machine thwart me? Why? Every arsing crapping time I get a moment to myself it makes my life a fucking Hell. That bastarding queynting fuck-faced wank-arsed miserable piece of bollocking shit!

The fact that it's a new machine doesn't help. I thought that my DVD troubles were over when the last machine was banished from my sight. But, oh no. That would have been far too easy. Why on Earth would the universe allow me to have a couple of hours of emotional entertainment? What was I thinking?

At least this machine doesn't skip through the film like a schoolgirl with a new rope. No. This particular mechanical monstrosity spews forth subtitles like a bulimic teenager after being left unsupervised at Woolworths pic'n'mix. Bastard!

And before you say "have you tried turning off the subtitles?", yes of course I fucking have. I'm not a shitting retard. I've tried a million times. I've tried until my button pushing finger was aching and bleeding.

Why does technology hate me so?

Oh great. Now I can feel my heart racing and a tingle in my left arm. Bollocks.



To dilute my consuming rage, I went over to Wyndham's and took this test:

Your results:
You are Green Lantern

Green Lantern 70% Catwoman 70% Superman 60% Spider-Man 60% Hulk 55% The Flash 55% Iron Man 50% Supergirl 43% Robin 38% Wonder Woman 28% Batman 20%

Hot-headed. You have strong will power and a good imagination.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero am I?" quiz...

The hot-headed bit's right. And I can certainly imagine a few choice unhappy endings for that infernal machine.

Poo-air

I was repainting the bathroom when I had a thought.

Yes, just the one.

I thought: Hearing people burp makes me sick, so isn't it a good job that hearing people fart doesn't provoke a similar, but lower down, reaction.

And just to clarify, I don't like to hear other people expel poo-air. And the bathroom is now a deeper, richer red called Gorgeous (although it's not quite finished. It needs touching up. I'll do it tomorrow...).

Uninvited guest

* clatter... crash... clank... "Will you get down!" clunk... bonk... "Now!" CRASH! "Oh, for the love of..." *

There's a gargoyle on my roof.

I've just come back from a weekend in the country and I find this. Why it had to choose my roof I don't know. Bloody thing.

Normally, I don't mind gargoyles. They perform a task. They're useful. Perched on the edge of buildings, they scare off the pigeons and spew excess rainwater clear of the walls preventing damp and rot. And they do their job while remaining perfectly still and quiet.

Not like my roof's current occupant.

* clang... CRUNCH... "What did I just say? Get down. NOW!" clink... bonk...*

Honestly, there's more tiles on the ground than on the roof. That has to be the clumsiest, most ungainly, inelegant creature I've ever clapped eyes on. And ugly, too.

Admittedly, it does scare the birds off so at least I don't get crapped on when leaving the house. And it does keep rainwater runoff from the walls. However, there is a big, lumpy streak of what looks like reddish-brown cement smeared down the wall next to my bedroom window.

It can only be gargoyle poo.

I have an idea that it's eating the chimney stack...

* ssscrape... "Mmuuuhhhh mmmthhhthuuummth" "zzkt ssztsspt ksstskpt zsszmf" clonk... "Mmuump" *

What the... Sounds like he's got company up there. This isn't open house, you know! Hold on, I'd better get up there and see what's going on.

* "Oh. It's you. Well, you know what's going to happen now, don't you" "sszkt sszzzptszzt - meeep" Zzzzap! *

It was Grandma DeVise. She'd got lost mid-transfer and spectralised on my roof. Senile old bat. I can't imagine why it's suddenly so popular. At least TGOC Future will be pleased - he can have his airing cupboard back and stop storing his towels in TGOC Present's reptile tank.

I've packed the old biddy off to the nursing home for a couple of weeks. She can sit on their roof with Azscoleete the banshee, keeping him company while he noisily informs the residents that one of them will soon pop their clogs.

Now, back to my original problem. Does anyone have a spare turret or buttress that this gargoyle can call home? Wyndham, surely Triffid Towers has a neglected spire?

Familiarity breeds contempt

LOST

My familiar

May answer to the name BEAKY depending on what mood he's in.

He looks like a stuck up blackbird with a streak

of white feathers over his left eye.

He doesn't like fingers, children, clean cars, greasy hair,

raisins and that high pitched squeal that babies make.

I don't want him back, so if you see him, tell him to bugger off.

He's a selfish, snobby imperialist.

Good riddance!

Ha!

They're back

I don't have to remove the link, after all. Tazzy & Piggy are back.

Phew.