Oh yeah, I forgot

Collectormania! The only thing apart from Wimbledon and holidays I'll get up early in the morning for. This year I braved the M1 and Milton Keynes (shudder) for to see Alan Tudyk, because he's cool. He is of course Wash in Firefly/Serenity (very many Browncoats wandering around with Jayne hats and t-shirts proclaiming they're the Hero of Canton), Wat in A Knight's Tale, and the voice of the robot in I, Robot (don't ask me what his name is, I haven't actually seen it). Anyway, he's a sweetheart and posed for a photo with me, which was jolly nice of him!



Afterwards got mildly (read: completely) lost in MK. Ugh. Horrible place. Would it kill them to put up a road sign or two? I was about five miles from the M1 with no hope of being able to find it, because when I came out of the carpark I was in a one-way system and couldn't get back to face the other way. So of course I keep going, looking for somewhere to turn around, perhaps keep making right turns until I'm back in the same place... but there's a truly baffling collection of roundabouts, one-way streets, traffic lights and No Right Turn signs. And everything looks the same. It's like being in one of those horror movies where you realise you're trapped, and they want to eat your brain. If there's any left after you've survived the road system, that is.

Anyway. Finally made it back (M1 a doddle after MK, don't know why I was so scared of motorways. They at least have signage) to Jen's house and got filmed for her documentary thingy about internet personalities. Can't remember precisely what I said, but 'um' featured a lot.

Furbabies!

We can pick them up tomorrow! Expect many pictures and very little sense from me. Can I get a squeee!!!!?

Dontcha think they make me look smarter?

New glasses! Well, I was all depressed because I got told I couldn't wear contact lenses any more (have to have a prism in the lens to correct a muscle thingy--don't ask, I don't really understand it--which can't be put in a contact lens), but my new glasses are pretty cute.

However, when I walked out of the shop the sun was shining brightly and I thought, "Oh, I'll just put my sunglasses on." Only a) I didn't have them ('cos when do I ever?) and b) even if I did I wouldn't be able to see anything. Cos they're just regular sunglasses with no prescription. Which was no problem when I had contacts.

So, dammit, now I have to think about prescription sunnies. I know, I can have my regular glasses tinted, but that would be next to useless, really, because the lenses are pretty small and the sun would just come in round the edges. Useless for driving. Which means the expensive RayBan type prescription lenses.

And it's months until I can ask for them for Christmas!

Stuff, part three

(or however many parts we've got to by now). Nothing to do, not much to say (isn't that from a song? One of those 'hey look we're on lots of drugs!' Beatles songs? Come to think of it, whatever made my parents think they were a suitable band for me to grow up to?). Still recovering from yesterday's hangover (I mean, from drinking on Tuesday night. When you get the end of the first bottle, just say no!). Going into town to buy cat food bowls and cat toys and other things that will make me go googly-eyed (like normal women in Mothercare). Don't know why I'm putting all this stuff in brackets (stream of consciousness? No, not awake enough for that).

Tune in tomorrow, when I shall be able to give you a rundown of this week's stop story: my new glasses!

I have got to get me a life.

What, no other comments on the lovely David? And no guesses at the song, either. I'm sad now. See me pout and blink tear-filled eyes.

Okay, riddle me this. Why am I up here at this machine when I could be downstairs watching Sean Bean running around in a scruffy shirt saving 'the whole bluddy armeh' because 'no bugger else will'? The things I suffer for my art, honestly!

Geek love

Yep, I have a new crush, and in true geek style it's on a geeky guy in a geeky series. Actually, Doctor Who isn't geeky at all, but it is cult, and the two are easily confused. And David Tennant isn't, I'm sure, a geek either. But he looks so cute in his glasses and he's so smart, too! Bless his sonic screwdriver.


(PS. Who has a song called Geek Love? Answers on a comment form, please!)

Misplaced artistry

My parents never let me draw on the walls when I was little. So I'm getting my own back.

But then, this is probably why:

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Give me something to sing about

I have a t-shirt that says that. James Marsters thought it was very amusing. And see how hot he is? He must be right.

So, because my brain has been in default mode all day (actually for a while), I'm going to try finding meaning in song lyrics. I read a thing in the paper the other day about 'the nation's favourite lyrics' or some other bollocks on VH-1. Well, they had stuff like Bittersweet Symphony and Angels in the top 10. No; those are songs you like listening to. The lyrics mean nothing. But then this are the people who told us Imagine was the greatest song ever written (drone on, John, drone on) and Grease was the best musical, like, ever (West Side Story? My Fair Lady? The Simpsons' musical episides have more gravitas).

Anyway. Here are, in no particular order, my best songs for:

Grieving. I've spent most of today trying not to think about Honey and wailing whenever a slightly relevant song comes on the radio. Or if my brother plays Crowded House's She Goes On:

This is the place that I loved her
And these are the friends that she had
Long may the mountain ring
To the sound of her laughter

And she goes on, and on
In her soft wind I will whisper
In her warm sun I will glisten ’till we see her once again
In a world without end

Which made me cry even before my dog died. Fresh from the Concert for George--the only version I'm familiar with--Joe Brown and I'll See You In My Dreams. Picture the Royal Albert Hall filled with cascading rose petals while the finale plays:

Lonely days are long
Twilight sings a song
Of the happiness that used to be
Soon my eyes will close
Soon I'll find repose
And in dreams you're always near to me

I'll see you in my dreams
Hold you in my dreams
Someone took you out of my arms
Still I feel the thrill of your charms

And, since anything has meaning when you're really depressed, James Blunt's Goodbye My Lover (I swear this song was haunting me in Sweden).

You touched my heart you touched my soul.
You changed my life and all my goals.
And love is blind and that I knew when,
My heart was blinded by you.

Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.

Bread, Everything I own. Written for his father, I think.

Is there someone you know
You're loving them so
But taking them all for granted
You may lose them one day
Someone takes them away
And they don't hear the words you long to say

I would give anything I own,
I'd give up my life, my heart, my home,
I would give everthing I own
Just to have you back again
Just to touch you once again



Songs to cheer you the fuck up, or at least give you a little bit of hope when you're mired in misery. Nerina Pallot (I saw her before she was famous, before even the obscure Sunday Times critics decided she was cool, so ner) Learning to Breathe (maddeningly hard to come by online, guess she can't be that famous yet). This is a gal who is passionate, by the way, about finding exactly the right words to express what she means. She doesn't take her words lightly (unlike me, hah):

This road is long, this road is wide
It takes more than luck to last the ride
It takes strength, and it takes courage to survive
And did someone ever say to you
"There's nothing bound in thought you cannot do"?
Well, I've said some things, but not all of them came true

So I don't want to be the last, don't want to be the first
Don't want to be alone with my thoughts tomorrow
Don't want to be afraid, don't want to look away
I'm learning to breathe
Don't want to be the last, don't want to be the first
I just need a hope and a light to follow
Like sailors look to stars to find their way home
I'm learning to breathe on my own

And I know a man who lost his wife
This is the way he chooses to describe his life:
"If I think too much I find there's just a hole."
But before she went she left a son
He says, "Dad, you're not the only one."
Maybe love is just a requiem for the soul.

Because most things that cheer you up are cliches, and because sometimes just realising you're PMSing and it's not actually the whole world that's against you can actually make you feel better (or at least give you an excuse), Daniel Powter and Bad Day:

You had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day

And because I love the boys, the Finn Brothers and Nothing Wrong With You. Again, the song makes me cry, but usually it's because I'm a wuss and I need to try harder. Actually this song was written by Tim Finn after a rather startling and unprovoked racial attack on his wife. Neil sings it, though.

The moment that we dread
It comes all too soon
Voices in your head
Still carry on the tune
Let the sound come in
From the world outside
You just keep on singing
When they tell you filthy lies

All the mud in this town
All the dirt in this world
None of it sticks on you
You shake it off
'Cause you're better than that
And you don't need it
There's nothing wrong with you

Remember how it made you hurt
Even as you fight to go on
Turn it into something else
Turn it into something else

Ahh, I feel better now. Nothing like behaving like a teenager to make you feel better about yourself.


Alll together now:

It's all right if something’s come out wrong,
We’ll sing a happy song,
And you can sing along.

'Where there’s life, there hope'
'Every day's a gift',
'Wishes can come true',
'Whistle while you work',
So hard all day:
To be like other girls,
To fit in, in this glittering world.

Don’t give me songs,
Don’t give me songs.

Give me something to sing about.

Honey

We had Honey put down this morning. The vet came to our house and we were all there with her. It feels like a really horrible thing to have done to her but we couldn't let her go on like she was. We couldn't make her all better, so we ended it the other way. Right decision, but I still feel like hell.

I'll try and think of something more cheerful to post later.

Passionate Ink contest finalists

Well, I didn't final in the Passionate Plume contest, but both the entries I judged in the Stroke of Midnight (unpublished) contest did, so I feel good about it anyway. I'm not sure if the results are listed on the website yet (they've been announced internally though) so I won't splash them about until it's offical. But yay anyway!

Fluffy stuff

Easter, bunnies, ducklings, et cetera. Right, that's the seasonal link out of the way. Guess what? Went to Cats Protection yesterday to look at the kittens. My God, they're cute. There aren't enough words to convey just how cute a litter of five-week-old kittens is. I'd actually forgotten how adorable they were. Four white, one tabby. Two of the white girls and one boy were still available and since I couldn't decide... and the cuteness was so overwhelming... I pulled the same trick I did eighteen years ago and persuaded the 'rents that really, two kittens would keep each other company, and they'd play with each other and not bother Tinker so much, and besides, when Tinker dies the new cat would be so lonely...

The girl will be called Sugar, the boy Spike. Toyed with calling him Ash (he belongs to me, Amy!), but Spike seemed to fit better. Plus, Sugar and Spike, who could resist?

We can have them in a couple of weeks. Was worried about how Honey would react, and keeping them in the same room (until they're litter trained we really need to keep them somewhere cleanable at night!), but it seems that's not a problem we'll have. We've been talking about calling the vet to make a housecall and have Honey put to sleep. She's clearly never going to get better and she has zero quality of life. But she made fourteen (we don't know when she was born, but we count it on Easter Sunday because we know it was around then), which is a good old age, and there's never been a happier dog.

So, new life, old life. Kind of fitting for Easter, I guess.

I'm me again!

But before I tell you why, here's a tip for anyone trying to finish a book. Do not, under any circumstances, spend the day before deadline when you still have several thousand words to write--let alone edit--visiting the hairdresser, trying out new chocolate-flavoured soft cheese, and buying the new Tomb Raider (especially not if you idolise Lara Croft so much that you even know what type of pistol she favours).

The hairdresser one was especially hazardous, since I now look so pretty I'm distracted by my own reflection in the monitor. But look! I'm me again! Brunettism is all very well and good, but there ain't nothing like being a blonde, I tell you.

I'd post a picture, but the highlights seem to be dazzling the flash.

A pre-emptive rant

I've just booked my flights to go to the RWA conference this year. London to Atlanta, nonstop, hussah!

And then...

And then, I check the Atlanta airport website to see what the terminal is like, and how easy it's going to be to meet up with a friend flying in from Texas. International flights often come in at a different terminal, you see, or a different arrivals area.

Just for those of you who've never had the pleasure, this is what usually happens when you fly in to, say, a London airport. That's London, with a population bigger than that of the whole state of Georgia, which has been bombed and set fire to and bombed again more or less continuously since about 1605 (oh, we knew how to deal with terrorists then). You fly in, get off the plane, hand over your passport and whatever visa-type things you need. Then you pick up your bag, go through customs, get in a car and bugger off away from the airport.

In Atlanta, things are different. I just watched--three times, in astonishment--a little Flash presentation guiding me through the process. You land, and go to Immigration. Then you pick up your baggage. Then you go through customs. So far, so normal. Until you get to the 'courtesy baggage check' where you give your bags back, and go through more security screening (you know, the doorway that scans you, the conveyor for your bag and coat, taking your shoes off--honesty can anyone tell me why?--being wanded, just like before you got on the plane, since when you could have had no possible opportunity to acquire anything hazardous whatsoever, except for a bad attitude). Then you get on a train that has several stops (you aren't told at this stage which stop you'll need. I presume it's all unclear when you get there) until you finally arrive at the terminal, where you can go and queue up again and re-retrieve your bags. Then you are allowed to proceed to the first aid stand where you will be treated for severe dementia.

I mean, really. This is for international passengers. To Atlanta. The shortest possible distance you could have travelled internationally is from Totonto, 750 miles away, which at a guess would be about three or four hours on a plane. If you've come from Europe, you're going to have been on that plane for nine hours, minimum. If you're like me and have travelled from London, you'll have been up since about 6am and when you land it will be about 9.30pm by your own bodyclock. Of those fifteen and a half hours, you will have spent nine and a half in the air, in a tin can with the inevitable wailing children, inadequate food, snotty stewardesses (God, I wish I could afford First Class) and gigantically fat neighbouring passenger with body odour who whines constantly that their TV screen doesn't work properly; and a further two or three hours in the airport before you even took off, being interrogated with ridiculously pointless questions such as how long you've owned your luggage and how you travelled to the airport (no, I'm actually serious about those two. Heard them personally).

Landing after a nine and a half hour flight--nine and a half hours, people, longer than most of us get to sleep every night--your brain isn't working anyway. All you want to do is get to your hotel, drink a large, highly alcoholic beverage, and go to sleep. Waiting at a luggage carousel is hard enough when you can't even remember where you've come from, let alone what colour your suitcase is. And then you have to do it twice.

Why? Why, why, why? It's not safer! It's not more secure! All it does, and I am honestly very sad to report this, is fill the inbound, international passengers with unmitigated vitriol towards the unfathomable creatures who planned all this. It does, in short, make everyone hate America just that little bit more. If you really want people to stop bombing you, then stop pissing them off.

It's not rocket science. It's not even commercial aviation.

I'll probably not be allowed in now.