(no subject)
Spent the past few days packing. How in the name of all that is good have I got fifteen boxes of books? I think they're breeding behind my back.
Today was a fun day. Jess came over and we made cupcakes and flapjacks, and when Alan's lectures finished we went for a picnic and took Thlayli with us. Much enjoyment watching him running around enjoying the wonderful outdoors. I had him on a harness with the leash around my wrist, but he kept running around me and getting me tangled up in it, so in the end I tied it to the laces of one of my Doc Martens. Which Thlayli then managed to drag about two hundred yards up a hill, with Jess and I chasing him. We did get one group of girls who came up and asked me if he was a dog. I was like, "Yes, he's a dog. A really tiny, long eared, twitchy-nosed dog with huge hind paws and an odd lolloping run. In fact, he's a Rabbidoodle. One of those new designer breeds that's very popular in Europe just now." Idiots. Then we had cheesecake and sausage rolls and shandy lemonades, except for Thalyli who had carrots and water, and he jumped up on my lap and went to sleep. It was very cute.
Spent the rest of the afternoon and evening curled up reading "The Thief Lord", which I think may have beaten out Inkheart as my favourite Cornelia Funke book. I've never been to Venice, but just reading some of those scenes I could almost hear the cry of the gondoliers, smell the canals, feel the chill of snowflakes falling outside. It's a truly amazing book, which I recomend to anyone in the whole world ever.
And conversely, on the subject of things that should never, under any circumstances be recomended to anyone,
Charlotte Elizabeth Christine Daae Le Fantome-Chagney, aged exactly six years, three hundred and sixty-three days, eight hours, eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds, lay in bed and listened to her parents bicker in the kitchen downstairs.
This was not, on the whole, an unusual occurrence. Her parents bickered more or less constantly, on topics ranging from how Charlie’s new room should be furnished to whose turn it was to do the dishes this week. Daddy claimed that Papa’s entire approach to interior decoration consisted of pilfering anything in the Opera House that caught his fancy, dragging it downstairs and then forgetting about it, leaving it to molder gently in a corner somewhere. Charlie thought this was probably quite true, but she also thought it was terribly exciting to have a gondola for a bed and that enormous glittering set pieces and oil-cloth backdrops made a wonderful playground in which to have many daring adventures with her loyal friend, Mister Pixiefoots. Papa, on the other hand, declared that this was a scandalous lie, and that he could not be responsible if certain plebish Vicomtes failed to comprehend the grand scheme involved in his mode of decorating. Daddy said this was merely a cover-up for being a lazy slob who didn’t want to do his share of the housework. Papa argued that the spider-webs were an essential part of his over-all vision. Daddy had said that unless this overall vision involved sleeping on the couch, Papa could bloody well pick up a duster and give him a hand. Papa had moaned and whined, but had eventually helped out, although his version of “helping” mostly involved pointing out spots that Daddy had missed, and on at least one occasion, deliberately spreading dust and cobwebs over a gilt chandelier after Daddy had cleaned it.
They had bickered for four days straight right before they had moved here, to this ivy-trellised house in the French countryside surrounded by thick woodlands. Papa had been against it from the start, arguing that little girls raised in seclusion with forests all around them grew up to be the kind of young woman who talks to squirrels and says things like “La, Mister Bluebird” and eventually ends up locked in a castle guarded by killer thorns and possibly dragons. Of course, Papa said things like that a lot, often aided by hand puppets and the occasional pie chart. Daddy had pointed out that, on the contrary, any tendency to substitute the affections of small furry mammals for contact with actual human beings was entirely due to Papa’s side of the family, and at least in the country Charlie could play with nice, wholesome creatures like deer and chipmunks, whereas all that was to be found in Paris was rats. He’d said this in a very pointed way, and Papa had blushed and mumbled something Charlie hadn’t managed to catch and slunk away to pack his things.
Now they were bickering about her birthday party. Charlie slid out of bed and crept to the door to listen, easing it open the merest fraction of an inch in order to hear more of their conversation. Her parents had cautioned her, in that tiresome way parents have, on the fact that eavesdropping was Not Nice, but Charlie reasoned that she was perfectly entitled to hear about her own birthday, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t get caught. She hugged Mister Pixiefoots closer (she didn’t dare let him out of her sight since she had caught Daddy trying to bury him in the backyard) and leaned towards the gap in time to hear Papa accuse Daddy of being a milquetoast. Charlotte didn’t know exactly what a “milquetoast” was, but she assumed it was some kind of delicious breakfast roll that fashionable ladies ate on terraced cafes in Paris. At any rate, Papa used it quite a lot, usually when he was about to lose an argument. She could almost picture him throwing his hands up in the air in a way that meant he was conceding defeat, but that the other person was none-the-less wrong and far too stupid to waste more time on. Someone sighed, and then she heard Daddy speaking in his Put-Upon Voice:
“For the third and, please God, final time, “Don Juan Triumphant” is not appropriate entertainment for seven year olds.”
“But-”
“No, not even with hand puppets. In fact, especially not with hand puppets, because then not only is it inappropriately erotic, it’s also creepy.” There was a pause. Charlie mentally inserted the image of Papa’s dejected expression before Daddy went on.
“It’s a children’s party. Children’s parties have magicians. Or clowns.”
“No clowns,” said Papa quickly.
“Magician, then. Christine can be your assistant.”
Charlie perked up. Christine was pretty and funny and always brought Charlie large boxes of sweets from the finest Parisian chocolatiers when she visited; boxes with satin linings and huge bows of bright yellow and pictures of kittens on the lids. Charlie desperately wanted a kitten, but Papa had an old and cantankerous Siamese cat who relentlessly savaged any interloper while simultaneously resisting all of Charlie’s attempts to be friends. Beneath her, the voices continued unabated.
“And some of the parents are coming, so please try and be polite to them.”
“I’m always polite.”
“Yes, but generally you manage to be astonishingly rude at the same time. Just behave yourself. No glaring at people, no snide remarks, no deliberately encouraging them to make idiots of themselves. No… scenes.”
“I’m not going to start dropping chandeliers, I am over that phase.”
“Also we don’t actually have a chandelier. Erik, I mean it…”
“Alright, alright. No snide remarks, no unexplained accidents. I understand.”
“And you’ll think of some tricks to keep the children entertained?”
“Fine. But in return, I don’t have to clean up afterwards.”
“Fine.”
“And no dishes for a month.”
“Erik…”
“A week.”
“Or we could forget the washing up, and I’ll do that thing instead.”
There was a brief pause.
“Which thing?”
“Both.”
Silence.
“At the same time.”
“Is that physically possible?”
“I’ve been practicing.”
There was a strangled squeaking noise, and a low, knowing laugh, and the scrape of an oak table across kitchen flagstones, and Charlie shut her bedroom door and climbed back into bed, wondering vaguely if this meant Papa would be in a good mood tomorrow and make her special birthday pancakes a day early.
Oh yes. Special level of Hell, here I come.
Today was a fun day. Jess came over and we made cupcakes and flapjacks, and when Alan's lectures finished we went for a picnic and took Thlayli with us. Much enjoyment watching him running around enjoying the wonderful outdoors. I had him on a harness with the leash around my wrist, but he kept running around me and getting me tangled up in it, so in the end I tied it to the laces of one of my Doc Martens. Which Thlayli then managed to drag about two hundred yards up a hill, with Jess and I chasing him. We did get one group of girls who came up and asked me if he was a dog. I was like, "Yes, he's a dog. A really tiny, long eared, twitchy-nosed dog with huge hind paws and an odd lolloping run. In fact, he's a Rabbidoodle. One of those new designer breeds that's very popular in Europe just now." Idiots. Then we had cheesecake and sausage rolls and shandy lemonades, except for Thalyli who had carrots and water, and he jumped up on my lap and went to sleep. It was very cute.
Spent the rest of the afternoon and evening curled up reading "The Thief Lord", which I think may have beaten out Inkheart as my favourite Cornelia Funke book. I've never been to Venice, but just reading some of those scenes I could almost hear the cry of the gondoliers, smell the canals, feel the chill of snowflakes falling outside. It's a truly amazing book, which I recomend to anyone in the whole world ever.
And conversely, on the subject of things that should never, under any circumstances be recomended to anyone,
Charlotte Elizabeth Christine Daae Le Fantome-Chagney, aged exactly six years, three hundred and sixty-three days, eight hours, eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds, lay in bed and listened to her parents bicker in the kitchen downstairs.
This was not, on the whole, an unusual occurrence. Her parents bickered more or less constantly, on topics ranging from how Charlie’s new room should be furnished to whose turn it was to do the dishes this week. Daddy claimed that Papa’s entire approach to interior decoration consisted of pilfering anything in the Opera House that caught his fancy, dragging it downstairs and then forgetting about it, leaving it to molder gently in a corner somewhere. Charlie thought this was probably quite true, but she also thought it was terribly exciting to have a gondola for a bed and that enormous glittering set pieces and oil-cloth backdrops made a wonderful playground in which to have many daring adventures with her loyal friend, Mister Pixiefoots. Papa, on the other hand, declared that this was a scandalous lie, and that he could not be responsible if certain plebish Vicomtes failed to comprehend the grand scheme involved in his mode of decorating. Daddy said this was merely a cover-up for being a lazy slob who didn’t want to do his share of the housework. Papa argued that the spider-webs were an essential part of his over-all vision. Daddy had said that unless this overall vision involved sleeping on the couch, Papa could bloody well pick up a duster and give him a hand. Papa had moaned and whined, but had eventually helped out, although his version of “helping” mostly involved pointing out spots that Daddy had missed, and on at least one occasion, deliberately spreading dust and cobwebs over a gilt chandelier after Daddy had cleaned it.
They had bickered for four days straight right before they had moved here, to this ivy-trellised house in the French countryside surrounded by thick woodlands. Papa had been against it from the start, arguing that little girls raised in seclusion with forests all around them grew up to be the kind of young woman who talks to squirrels and says things like “La, Mister Bluebird” and eventually ends up locked in a castle guarded by killer thorns and possibly dragons. Of course, Papa said things like that a lot, often aided by hand puppets and the occasional pie chart. Daddy had pointed out that, on the contrary, any tendency to substitute the affections of small furry mammals for contact with actual human beings was entirely due to Papa’s side of the family, and at least in the country Charlie could play with nice, wholesome creatures like deer and chipmunks, whereas all that was to be found in Paris was rats. He’d said this in a very pointed way, and Papa had blushed and mumbled something Charlie hadn’t managed to catch and slunk away to pack his things.
Now they were bickering about her birthday party. Charlie slid out of bed and crept to the door to listen, easing it open the merest fraction of an inch in order to hear more of their conversation. Her parents had cautioned her, in that tiresome way parents have, on the fact that eavesdropping was Not Nice, but Charlie reasoned that she was perfectly entitled to hear about her own birthday, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t get caught. She hugged Mister Pixiefoots closer (she didn’t dare let him out of her sight since she had caught Daddy trying to bury him in the backyard) and leaned towards the gap in time to hear Papa accuse Daddy of being a milquetoast. Charlotte didn’t know exactly what a “milquetoast” was, but she assumed it was some kind of delicious breakfast roll that fashionable ladies ate on terraced cafes in Paris. At any rate, Papa used it quite a lot, usually when he was about to lose an argument. She could almost picture him throwing his hands up in the air in a way that meant he was conceding defeat, but that the other person was none-the-less wrong and far too stupid to waste more time on. Someone sighed, and then she heard Daddy speaking in his Put-Upon Voice:
“For the third and, please God, final time, “Don Juan Triumphant” is not appropriate entertainment for seven year olds.”
“But-”
“No, not even with hand puppets. In fact, especially not with hand puppets, because then not only is it inappropriately erotic, it’s also creepy.” There was a pause. Charlie mentally inserted the image of Papa’s dejected expression before Daddy went on.
“It’s a children’s party. Children’s parties have magicians. Or clowns.”
“No clowns,” said Papa quickly.
“Magician, then. Christine can be your assistant.”
Charlie perked up. Christine was pretty and funny and always brought Charlie large boxes of sweets from the finest Parisian chocolatiers when she visited; boxes with satin linings and huge bows of bright yellow and pictures of kittens on the lids. Charlie desperately wanted a kitten, but Papa had an old and cantankerous Siamese cat who relentlessly savaged any interloper while simultaneously resisting all of Charlie’s attempts to be friends. Beneath her, the voices continued unabated.
“And some of the parents are coming, so please try and be polite to them.”
“I’m always polite.”
“Yes, but generally you manage to be astonishingly rude at the same time. Just behave yourself. No glaring at people, no snide remarks, no deliberately encouraging them to make idiots of themselves. No… scenes.”
“I’m not going to start dropping chandeliers, I am over that phase.”
“Also we don’t actually have a chandelier. Erik, I mean it…”
“Alright, alright. No snide remarks, no unexplained accidents. I understand.”
“And you’ll think of some tricks to keep the children entertained?”
“Fine. But in return, I don’t have to clean up afterwards.”
“Fine.”
“And no dishes for a month.”
“Erik…”
“A week.”
“Or we could forget the washing up, and I’ll do that thing instead.”
There was a brief pause.
“Which thing?”
“Both.”
Silence.
“At the same time.”
“Is that physically possible?”
“I’ve been practicing.”
There was a strangled squeaking noise, and a low, knowing laugh, and the scrape of an oak table across kitchen flagstones, and Charlie shut her bedroom door and climbed back into bed, wondering vaguely if this meant Papa would be in a good mood tomorrow and make her special birthday pancakes a day early.
Oh yes. Special level of Hell, here I come.