Thursday wol is as tight as one
Yesterday's rhapsodical photos aside, I'm not entirely sure I love my Hobbit very much at the moment. Some thrice-bedamned feline of the male persuasion has sprayed in the house, most notably in my bedroom, which I take rather personally when it means I come home at the end of an eleven-hour day and have to take down and wash the curtains. If it's not Hobbit himself to blame, it's his wimpish failure to employ his considerable bulk in the service of seeing off the intruder, and I am Not Impressed either way. It's also led to the unfortunate situation where I'm burning Baygon pellets in my study not just because unspecified things are eating my ankles, which they are, but because the sweetish chemical pong clogging my sinuses is several steps up from the odour of cat piss. Cat piss is a horribly pervasive smell, and the universal rule is that you'll never actually find the spray point. I need a blacklight. Anyone know who stocks them locally?
On the upside, via boingboing, drunken owl. My love of all things strigine means I am fretting somewhat over the fear that the poor creature might be permanently harmed by its brush with the demon drink, but I love the story - not only because of its literal embodiment of the rather archaic phrase "tight as an owl", but because of the beautiful deadpan of either the police or the reporter, or possibly both.
In other news, eleven-hour days. Orientation starts on Monday. My life is a whirl of paper, email, phone calls, photocopies, organisational crises, orientation leaders and insufficient tea. My recent tweet identified "the kind of week where all my tea gets cold before I can drink it, and I seem to be living entirely on chocolate chip cookies. And nerves." Send dried frog pills, stat. If nothing else, I can feed them to the bloody spraying cat.
On the upside, via boingboing, drunken owl. My love of all things strigine means I am fretting somewhat over the fear that the poor creature might be permanently harmed by its brush with the demon drink, but I love the story - not only because of its literal embodiment of the rather archaic phrase "tight as an owl", but because of the beautiful deadpan of either the police or the reporter, or possibly both.
In other news, eleven-hour days. Orientation starts on Monday. My life is a whirl of paper, email, phone calls, photocopies, organisational crises, orientation leaders and insufficient tea. My recent tweet identified "the kind of week where all my tea gets cold before I can drink it, and I seem to be living entirely on chocolate chip cookies. And nerves." Send dried frog pills, stat. If nothing else, I can feed them to the bloody spraying cat.