"You cannot put one jet in a line. If MJN is anything, it is an airdot."
So ages ago I meant to rec the Damn, Fandom Is Good At What You Do fest, because I love that: one of my biggest narrative kinks is competence (and, now that I mention it, probably something that attracts me to people, as well). People just getting on with things that are difficult and vital because they love them and were born to do them - yes.
The thing is, I have tried to write my own version, and just cannot. What I do - and what, it becomes increasingly and embarrassingly obvious, I was meant to do - is too awful even for fanfic. It just is. I had a work experience kid following me around today (and I try not to be dismissive in that way, I try not to say "kid" and "girl" of grown women, but seriously) and I tried and tried to explain what I do - and just couldn't. It all turned into "my office is full of lollipops and I know a lot about sewers", in other words things that are true but not exactly helpful. I don't think I could have the Doctor and May or Charles and Erik or Hermione and Luna do what I do. (Wait, maybe Hermione and Luna. But not the others.)
So. Lollipops. Design infringement. Land registration. Life, as ever, goes on.
(My supervisor, today, sounding totally outraged: "I spoke to the woman on the other side of the lollipops thing, and she's YOUNGER THAN YOU!"
I said, "My work experience girl is ten years younger than I am."
We left each other disturbed.)
In other news there is no other news. The weather is godawful. Some of you may have noticed peripherally that I watched the second series of Sherlock and fell hard for it; the fandom is one of the massive ridiculous kink-memes-get-filled ones I haven't been in a while and I'm having a lovely time. I'm also, weirdly, enjoying having a teenage crush on Benedict Cumberbatch. Because the thing is I never did have harmless crushes on famous people when I was a teenager, except when I did and it was awful. If he'd been a famous person in a very popular show when I was, say, fourteen, I'd have had a crush on him secretly and guiltily and then worried and worried and worried: about his eyelashes and high cheekbones and longish hair and fabulously femme way of sweeping out of a room. About being, as we say, one of them.
(Hello, my name is raven and I'm queer, who knew. Strictly speaking I'm pansexual, a term I avoid on the grounds I am not exclusively sexually attracted to goat-tailed demigods playing the pipes. I don't think I articulated it until I was in my twenties, but my type is femme: femme women and men and genderqueer people. God, it's so hard, isn't it? You all know. I'll stop talking. I noticed the other day that I am absolutely incapable of understanding the world as though I were straight or gay; I mean, I can't even write a tight-third gay-or-straight POV, which is odd when you consider I can write white guys. Okay, now I'll stop talking.)
So now I have a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock on my desktop, and I quite like looking at it, and that's okay, self. tau_sigma and
petra told me to listen to Cabin Pressure on Radio 4, and I'm doing that, and cackling. It's adorable and ridiculous and has that Radio 4 thing of not being funny in the slightest bit except it's TOTALLY HILARIOUS. It's a half-hour comedy show about a one-aircraft airline, and it has Benedict Cumberbatch and Stephanie Cole in it. It's lovely.
(Speaking of queerness, today is almost the last day to respond to the equal marriage consultation setting out the Home Office plans for for civil marriage and civil partnerships. It's very much worth doing. I speak as someone who finally got around to it today.)
In other other news the weather really is awful. I seem to spend all day at work with rainwater in my ears. I no longer have terrible migraines, thanks to the new meds, but have bizarre side-effect of being eerily calm about everything. Tomorrow I have a pub quiz in which the Caped Crusader and I have been split up by executive decree. The world spins madly on.
raven is also at Dreamwidth: there is or are
comment(s). Comment there or here.
The thing is, I have tried to write my own version, and just cannot. What I do - and what, it becomes increasingly and embarrassingly obvious, I was meant to do - is too awful even for fanfic. It just is. I had a work experience kid following me around today (and I try not to be dismissive in that way, I try not to say "kid" and "girl" of grown women, but seriously) and I tried and tried to explain what I do - and just couldn't. It all turned into "my office is full of lollipops and I know a lot about sewers", in other words things that are true but not exactly helpful. I don't think I could have the Doctor and May or Charles and Erik or Hermione and Luna do what I do. (Wait, maybe Hermione and Luna. But not the others.)
So. Lollipops. Design infringement. Land registration. Life, as ever, goes on.
(My supervisor, today, sounding totally outraged: "I spoke to the woman on the other side of the lollipops thing, and she's YOUNGER THAN YOU!"
I said, "My work experience girl is ten years younger than I am."
We left each other disturbed.)
In other news there is no other news. The weather is godawful. Some of you may have noticed peripherally that I watched the second series of Sherlock and fell hard for it; the fandom is one of the massive ridiculous kink-memes-get-filled ones I haven't been in a while and I'm having a lovely time. I'm also, weirdly, enjoying having a teenage crush on Benedict Cumberbatch. Because the thing is I never did have harmless crushes on famous people when I was a teenager, except when I did and it was awful. If he'd been a famous person in a very popular show when I was, say, fourteen, I'd have had a crush on him secretly and guiltily and then worried and worried and worried: about his eyelashes and high cheekbones and longish hair and fabulously femme way of sweeping out of a room. About being, as we say, one of them.
(Hello, my name is raven and I'm queer, who knew. Strictly speaking I'm pansexual, a term I avoid on the grounds I am not exclusively sexually attracted to goat-tailed demigods playing the pipes. I don't think I articulated it until I was in my twenties, but my type is femme: femme women and men and genderqueer people. God, it's so hard, isn't it? You all know. I'll stop talking. I noticed the other day that I am absolutely incapable of understanding the world as though I were straight or gay; I mean, I can't even write a tight-third gay-or-straight POV, which is odd when you consider I can write white guys. Okay, now I'll stop talking.)
So now I have a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock on my desktop, and I quite like looking at it, and that's okay, self. tau_sigma and
petra told me to listen to Cabin Pressure on Radio 4, and I'm doing that, and cackling. It's adorable and ridiculous and has that Radio 4 thing of not being funny in the slightest bit except it's TOTALLY HILARIOUS. It's a half-hour comedy show about a one-aircraft airline, and it has Benedict Cumberbatch and Stephanie Cole in it. It's lovely.
(Speaking of queerness, today is almost the last day to respond to the equal marriage consultation setting out the Home Office plans for for civil marriage and civil partnerships. It's very much worth doing. I speak as someone who finally got around to it today.)
In other other news the weather really is awful. I seem to spend all day at work with rainwater in my ears. I no longer have terrible migraines, thanks to the new meds, but have bizarre side-effect of being eerily calm about everything. Tomorrow I have a pub quiz in which the Caped Crusader and I have been split up by executive decree. The world spins madly on.
raven is also at Dreamwidth: there is or are
comment(s). Comment there or here.