Oh, look, I lied.
I said I'd catch up. I haven't. If I owe you a comment or a text or an email it's not because I hate you and think you're a potplant. Promise. You're all lovely.
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I've been lost in 1870s Arizona trying to do a basic edit and double-check on my story so I can send it forth to be beta'd. Of course in doing this preliminary edit neurons are now convinced the story is poo and awful and I never should have written the second half of it as it's long and dull and random. Which is a mook thing to think, and obviously doubly mook if it's accurate. *sigh* I persevere.
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The seasons are turning at last and so it is time for a corvid to stop wearing gypsy tea-dresses and instead wear winterish clothes. Trouble is, neurons haven't quite fathomed out what clothes they currently suit nor fit nor want (apart from a CSA shell jacket, more on that later). I think the trouble is I used up all my pretty-points being Idris. So am now a bit dull. This isn't the end of the world, but it does mean I'm more likely to do something foolish like cut my feathers short or attempt not to eat for a week (either in the name of becoming a Victorian lunatic or an Edwardian Arctic explorer, both work to an extent).
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I detect tremors of mopey neuron activity. This, frankly is like a geologist with one of those seismographs noticing that the needles twitched. It doesn't prophesy mental doom; it's just something that causes me to take note and a few extra precautions where I can.
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My father commented he believed my great aunt was getting Alzheimer's, which is depressing for several reasons. First off she's a brilliantly batty and energetic old lady who has her dog and her gardening and writes diary entries in a slightly satirical vein which she then sends to everyone. Secondly, I'd sort of previously comforted myself with the thought she *hadn't* got it. Genetically speaking, it gave me a sliver of hope. ... Then again, she is 81 and has had a hip replacement and various health issues so it might just be run-of-the-mill-dementia. (Y'know. If it can be termed that.) Blargh. Blargh blargh blargh.
Heh. Y'know there are two things that worry me about being 'sane'. First, I'll lose my whimsy - my magic, imagination and sideways thinking - it'll all be eroded by a surfeit of sensibility. Second, and this is actually the one that terrifies me: that I might become too sane to end my life if I need to.
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I still want a CSA shell jacket. This item won't in any way fix or improve my life in a practical sense. None the less neurons are mentally hugging it like it's some sort of magic talisman of meekle that will protect them from... erm... I dunno. Stuff.
To this end much research has been done. I have allotted upon 'Winchester Sutlers' as being the site with the best tailoring (v. important especially considering I'm historically gender challenged or something) and the most options. Not to mention they're also not the most expensive, which kinda surprised me.
http://winchestersutler.com/CoatShellDBCS.html
http://winchestersutler.com/CoatFrockDBCS.html
If I get a shell jacket to my specifications, it would cost £220 - with possibly the added sting of HMR Customs Evil Bastard Tax where they hold it to ransom until I give then 60quid or something.
Anyway. I could, maybe (maybe), do this. But this would be money I was taking away from 'oooh! I have a month where I don't have to scrabble insanely for rent! Joy!' Which, fiscally speaking isn't sensible. On the other hand, I've been stabbing myself over rent for a couple of years now and am kinda used to it. A jacket would be a thing that is technically frivolous, but gifts my neurons (who frequently live on porridge, third hand clothes, stress and friends' good graces) a lot of swank and joy.
Poll Jackety?
There was a whole load more totally random good news / bad news wibble I meant to write, but I'm very tired and a little on edge, and so fie upon my wibble - to bed!
=====
I've been lost in 1870s Arizona trying to do a basic edit and double-check on my story so I can send it forth to be beta'd. Of course in doing this preliminary edit neurons are now convinced the story is poo and awful and I never should have written the second half of it as it's long and dull and random. Which is a mook thing to think, and obviously doubly mook if it's accurate. *sigh* I persevere.
=====
The seasons are turning at last and so it is time for a corvid to stop wearing gypsy tea-dresses and instead wear winterish clothes. Trouble is, neurons haven't quite fathomed out what clothes they currently suit nor fit nor want (apart from a CSA shell jacket, more on that later). I think the trouble is I used up all my pretty-points being Idris. So am now a bit dull. This isn't the end of the world, but it does mean I'm more likely to do something foolish like cut my feathers short or attempt not to eat for a week (either in the name of becoming a Victorian lunatic or an Edwardian Arctic explorer, both work to an extent).
=====
I detect tremors of mopey neuron activity. This, frankly is like a geologist with one of those seismographs noticing that the needles twitched. It doesn't prophesy mental doom; it's just something that causes me to take note and a few extra precautions where I can.
=====
My father commented he believed my great aunt was getting Alzheimer's, which is depressing for several reasons. First off she's a brilliantly batty and energetic old lady who has her dog and her gardening and writes diary entries in a slightly satirical vein which she then sends to everyone. Secondly, I'd sort of previously comforted myself with the thought she *hadn't* got it. Genetically speaking, it gave me a sliver of hope. ... Then again, she is 81 and has had a hip replacement and various health issues so it might just be run-of-the-mill-dementia. (Y'know. If it can be termed that.) Blargh. Blargh blargh blargh.
Heh. Y'know there are two things that worry me about being 'sane'. First, I'll lose my whimsy - my magic, imagination and sideways thinking - it'll all be eroded by a surfeit of sensibility. Second, and this is actually the one that terrifies me: that I might become too sane to end my life if I need to.
=====
I still want a CSA shell jacket. This item won't in any way fix or improve my life in a practical sense. None the less neurons are mentally hugging it like it's some sort of magic talisman of meekle that will protect them from... erm... I dunno. Stuff.
To this end much research has been done. I have allotted upon 'Winchester Sutlers' as being the site with the best tailoring (v. important especially considering I'm historically gender challenged or something) and the most options. Not to mention they're also not the most expensive, which kinda surprised me.
http://winchestersutler.com/CoatShellDBCS.html
http://winchestersutler.com/CoatFrockDBCS.html
If I get a shell jacket to my specifications, it would cost £220 - with possibly the added sting of HMR Customs Evil Bastard Tax where they hold it to ransom until I give then 60quid or something.
Anyway. I could, maybe (maybe), do this. But this would be money I was taking away from 'oooh! I have a month where I don't have to scrabble insanely for rent! Joy!' Which, fiscally speaking isn't sensible. On the other hand, I've been stabbing myself over rent for a couple of years now and am kinda used to it. A jacket would be a thing that is technically frivolous, but gifts my neurons (who frequently live on porridge, third hand clothes, stress and friends' good graces) a lot of swank and joy.
Poll Jackety?
There was a whole load more totally random good news / bad news wibble I meant to write, but I'm very tired and a little on edge, and so fie upon my wibble - to bed!