let's face the music and dance
Whoa, it's September; how did that happen.
We're getting a late (probably not last) gasp of actual summer, and I came home from yesterday's putting-in-the-fall-garden session soaked through and filthy, but all I need to do today is stop by and water if it doesn't look like rain. Probably will be driving over to some obscure corner of VA to have lunch - third time eating out this week, but it is the week that contains both my birthday and our anniversary, so. Had anniversary dinner (26th, if you're wondering; it impressed the waitress) at a place that specializes in cocktails, so had a thing with bourbon and peach and hot peppers called a Back Porch, and then a Ginger Rogers, which I think is going to be my "cocktail I can make without looking at the recipe" after a few more tries. I made ginger simple syrup the day after, and produced a version of the drink, though we had no ginger ale so I made it with ginger beer, and yum. I think this is a sufficiently different recipe that I can name it, therefore: Backwards and In Heels.
I have practically a mint lawn on one side of the house now, so can make All the Mint Drinks Ever.
Working away at the really-now-final edit of Time for Tea, taking out unnecessary words, and happily falling in love with my characters all over again. Need to make a list for the next steps. Under the cut, a bit from chapter 12 I've always been fond of (slight spoilers and relative incomprehensibility; the "bastard son of a sacked stable boy" does have a reference point).
*
“Again, from the beginning of that Z figure,” he went on relentlessly. “Right foot first. No, the other right. Your hand on mine, and around. Olivia”-his other hand on her shoulder, catching her as she stumbled-“do you want to stop? I’m sorry; it is far too late. I’m indulging myself.”
“No, I’m enjoying it. But I am very tired.”
“Are you feeling all right otherwise?” he asked solicitously. “Feet not too blistered? Digestion functioning well?”
She laughed. “I’m fine. Mr. Merrill, your conversation is hardly fit for a ballroom; you need to work on the romantic atmosphere.”
“Is that what we had going? Damn. I’m out of practice, but I’m sure I can come up with a few platitudes if you give me time, and I’ll have no difficulty with compliments.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it with a mock fervency. “You have the beauty of a smuggling run by moonlight, and the grace of an exhausted gazelle, and I, who am but the bastard son of a sacked stable boy, am not worthy of your esteemed partnership, but you’re stuck with me anyway. Make the best of it.”
“I shall try,” she said, pulling her hand away. “We’ve made a good start.”
“I haven’t had this good a day in years. And being with you only makes it better. Oh, and speaking of romance...”
He broke away, went to the window and threw up the sash, then beckoned to her. Come to the window, sweet is the night air. She went to him, and peered out.
“Remember that hill? I think Miss Armitage knew its name perfectly well. Didn’t you see it on those old maps we looked at? It’s called Mount Misery. And I know why.”
“You are, of course, intending to tell me.”
He settled down on the wide sill and looked up at her teasingly. “One bitter winter’s day many years ago,” he began, “there was a gallant young sea captain. He happened to be a smuggler, but don’t hold that against him, because he was also in love. On this particular unpleasant, stormy day, he was returning from France with a cargo of contraband spirits in the hold of his lugger, approaching this very spot on the coast, where most of the inhabitants of the village were awaiting him, ready to meet the boats and unload the booze; among them was his sweetheart. She stood on the crest of the hill, waving her cloak furiously to let him know she was there, ready to fall into his arms. Can you see it?” he said, gesturing out the window. “I can. Any man would die for a woman that eager and true. And that was, of course, exactly what he did.”
“What happened?”
“It was a lee shore. Like a complete love-struck idiot, he tried to bring the lugger in and beach her; she broached to and every man aboard was lost. And the girl threw herself off the top of the hill, so she could die with him. Very, very romantic, and utterly wasteful. They say you can see her ghost leaping onto the surf-lashed rocks, screaming, every year on the anniversary of her death. Maybe we’ll be lucky. Anyway,” he went on, “why do you think our young hostess was playing ignorant about the name?”
Olivia shook her head. “Think she’s got a sea captain of her own to be sensitive about?” George asked. “I can’t see her throwing herself off any cliffs, but maybe she had her reasons for not wanting to tell the story. If I were you, I’d look for Lord Richard coming from the sea.”
*
Tumblr is still fun, but I have decided the rule is: the more clever I think a photoset is, the less likely anyone is to reblog it. (If you want to know: this and this.) Or maybe it's just: nothing gets reblogged unless it's tagged "Michael Emerson." Whatever. I am happy to post All the Ben Linus Ever, With Side of Harold Finch, but there are going to be bits of paper and parallelism and obscure quotes floating around too.
I'm just surprised I'm actually doing anything there. It's like the good old days when I ferreted out all the animal imagery in the Vorkosigan novels. Obsessive latching-on-to-specifics fandom, enabled by the ease of posting visuals.
Up through episode 10 of "Orange is the New Black" and still enjoying it. The plot arcs are somewhat predictable and yet compelling (or maybe it's "predictable and compelling" - being able to guess what's going to happen when it's a thing that appeals to storytelling sense is good, yes?) and I'm fond of a number of characters. Red and Crazy-Eyes are my favorites.
Reading (finally) Rivers of London, or Midnight Riot as it's called in the US for some unknown reason. Will report later.
And that is enough for now!
This entry was originally posted at http://hedda62.dreamwidth.org/62277.html. There are currently
comments there. Comment here or there.
We're getting a late (probably not last) gasp of actual summer, and I came home from yesterday's putting-in-the-fall-garden session soaked through and filthy, but all I need to do today is stop by and water if it doesn't look like rain. Probably will be driving over to some obscure corner of VA to have lunch - third time eating out this week, but it is the week that contains both my birthday and our anniversary, so. Had anniversary dinner (26th, if you're wondering; it impressed the waitress) at a place that specializes in cocktails, so had a thing with bourbon and peach and hot peppers called a Back Porch, and then a Ginger Rogers, which I think is going to be my "cocktail I can make without looking at the recipe" after a few more tries. I made ginger simple syrup the day after, and produced a version of the drink, though we had no ginger ale so I made it with ginger beer, and yum. I think this is a sufficiently different recipe that I can name it, therefore: Backwards and In Heels.
I have practically a mint lawn on one side of the house now, so can make All the Mint Drinks Ever.
Working away at the really-now-final edit of Time for Tea, taking out unnecessary words, and happily falling in love with my characters all over again. Need to make a list for the next steps. Under the cut, a bit from chapter 12 I've always been fond of (slight spoilers and relative incomprehensibility; the "bastard son of a sacked stable boy" does have a reference point).
*
“Again, from the beginning of that Z figure,” he went on relentlessly. “Right foot first. No, the other right. Your hand on mine, and around. Olivia”-his other hand on her shoulder, catching her as she stumbled-“do you want to stop? I’m sorry; it is far too late. I’m indulging myself.”
“No, I’m enjoying it. But I am very tired.”
“Are you feeling all right otherwise?” he asked solicitously. “Feet not too blistered? Digestion functioning well?”
She laughed. “I’m fine. Mr. Merrill, your conversation is hardly fit for a ballroom; you need to work on the romantic atmosphere.”
“Is that what we had going? Damn. I’m out of practice, but I’m sure I can come up with a few platitudes if you give me time, and I’ll have no difficulty with compliments.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it with a mock fervency. “You have the beauty of a smuggling run by moonlight, and the grace of an exhausted gazelle, and I, who am but the bastard son of a sacked stable boy, am not worthy of your esteemed partnership, but you’re stuck with me anyway. Make the best of it.”
“I shall try,” she said, pulling her hand away. “We’ve made a good start.”
“I haven’t had this good a day in years. And being with you only makes it better. Oh, and speaking of romance...”
He broke away, went to the window and threw up the sash, then beckoned to her. Come to the window, sweet is the night air. She went to him, and peered out.
“Remember that hill? I think Miss Armitage knew its name perfectly well. Didn’t you see it on those old maps we looked at? It’s called Mount Misery. And I know why.”
“You are, of course, intending to tell me.”
He settled down on the wide sill and looked up at her teasingly. “One bitter winter’s day many years ago,” he began, “there was a gallant young sea captain. He happened to be a smuggler, but don’t hold that against him, because he was also in love. On this particular unpleasant, stormy day, he was returning from France with a cargo of contraband spirits in the hold of his lugger, approaching this very spot on the coast, where most of the inhabitants of the village were awaiting him, ready to meet the boats and unload the booze; among them was his sweetheart. She stood on the crest of the hill, waving her cloak furiously to let him know she was there, ready to fall into his arms. Can you see it?” he said, gesturing out the window. “I can. Any man would die for a woman that eager and true. And that was, of course, exactly what he did.”
“What happened?”
“It was a lee shore. Like a complete love-struck idiot, he tried to bring the lugger in and beach her; she broached to and every man aboard was lost. And the girl threw herself off the top of the hill, so she could die with him. Very, very romantic, and utterly wasteful. They say you can see her ghost leaping onto the surf-lashed rocks, screaming, every year on the anniversary of her death. Maybe we’ll be lucky. Anyway,” he went on, “why do you think our young hostess was playing ignorant about the name?”
Olivia shook her head. “Think she’s got a sea captain of her own to be sensitive about?” George asked. “I can’t see her throwing herself off any cliffs, but maybe she had her reasons for not wanting to tell the story. If I were you, I’d look for Lord Richard coming from the sea.”
*
Tumblr is still fun, but I have decided the rule is: the more clever I think a photoset is, the less likely anyone is to reblog it. (If you want to know: this and this.) Or maybe it's just: nothing gets reblogged unless it's tagged "Michael Emerson." Whatever. I am happy to post All the Ben Linus Ever, With Side of Harold Finch, but there are going to be bits of paper and parallelism and obscure quotes floating around too.
I'm just surprised I'm actually doing anything there. It's like the good old days when I ferreted out all the animal imagery in the Vorkosigan novels. Obsessive latching-on-to-specifics fandom, enabled by the ease of posting visuals.
Up through episode 10 of "Orange is the New Black" and still enjoying it. The plot arcs are somewhat predictable and yet compelling (or maybe it's "predictable and compelling" - being able to guess what's going to happen when it's a thing that appeals to storytelling sense is good, yes?) and I'm fond of a number of characters. Red and Crazy-Eyes are my favorites.
Reading (finally) Rivers of London, or Midnight Riot as it's called in the US for some unknown reason. Will report later.
And that is enough for now!
This entry was originally posted at http://hedda62.dreamwidth.org/62277.html. There are currently
comments there. Comment here or there.