RWA Nationals

I left the hotel 9am yesterday, and got home 11.30 today. Therefore, sleepy. Therefore, report will have to wait.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.............

Leaving on a jet plane

Be back Monday.

RWA conference in Atlanta, which is apparently going to be cooler than it is here. Yep, world gone mad. My suitcase weighs more than me, I've still got a million things to pack and I haven't quite finished editing something I should have sent to my editor days ago. So, SNAFU, then.

Later!

UK Motorshow

Sophie has already blogged about this, but there were too many pictures to put on one post (else it would have been a million miles long).

So. New venue, Excel in London, much easier to get to. Park-and-ride seemed like a bit of an afterthought, bad sign for a motorshow, I thought, down a rutted track and ferried on Routemaster buses that saw service in WWII. It was about 32C in London yesterday, and neither buses nor convention centre were air conditioned (if Excel was, it needed turning up). However, it's a much better space, and being this time of year they could of course take several things outside. So there were car assault courses you could drive on, and a food court where your ice creams could melt. The BMW 'plaza' was outside too--BMs and Rolls under cover, Minis out in the open sunshine.

Inside, I was impressed with: the new Aston Martine Rapide (4-door); the Honda Civic (yes, I know, but it is damn good-looking); the Saab concept thingy; the Alfa Romeo Brera; the Alfa girls' outfits; and the Carte d'Or ice cream I had. Less than impressive were the Vauxhall stand (trying too hard with their 'trendy' 'street' promo outfits, and where the hell was the VX220? Don't tell me they've stopped making it?); the air conditioning, as mentioned; the herocally ugly Peugeot 207 (why, when the 206 was so pretty?); the lack of Fiats or VWs (come on, I wanted to see the Veyron); and the blisters on the soles of my feet when I was pruposefully wearing comfortable sandals to get air to my feet.

Anyway, here are some photos. No, not of my feet. Ew.


Clarkson's ToyBoatA. Heh.


Saab concept. Apparently it runs on biofuel, which means you save the planet but smell like a chip alley.


Pug 207. Yeah, and the colour doesn't help either.


New Corsa. Spot the difference! Baby-poo green paintwork? Check. Hamster-recieving-enema headlights? Check. Big launch fuss? No, that's just the Corsa. Phew.


One of these is not a Mini.


And this isn't a Ferrari, either. It's knitted.


Yes, it really is a Honda!


Angel in the detail.


Space-age technology in the Defender. Long may it reign!


You know how American waitstaff are so obsequiously cheerful all the time? Doesn't this car look like one of them?


Citroen C1, with matching small child.


Rich pretending it's his Brera.


...but can you blame him?


New Aston. Yep. I want one too.


God, they're so pretty. I want to marry an Aston. I want to have its babies. I don't want to drive one, however: because then, you can't see how pretty it is from the outside.

Your right to party

Okay, Beatrice (can I call you Bea?). You're about to turn eighteen. When your mum and dad ask you what you fancy doing for your birthday, you think about it and say, "I'd like a costume party." Any particular theme? "1888, I think." It's a little specific, but at least it ensures a degree of accuracy. Besides, all your friends and family are richer than creosote, so they can afford it. Because you're Princess Beatrice. Your mum is Fergie. Your dad is the Duke of York. Your grandma is the Queen.

Being a princess, Bea, you're well aware that news of this will reach the papers. You have official pictures taken with your parents and your sister, all decked out in your glory. Your dress cost £10,000 and you're pretty chuffed with it, even if your hair might have needed a little assistance. You wait for the photos to appear in the papers: won't it be nice to see a happy family snapshot after all the mad headlines and unflattering pictures, especially of your mum?

And then all this happens. There are headlines and editorials screaming that it's a disgrace. Why, Bea? Did you get really drunk, fall over and show your 1888 split bloomers? Did you eat a bad prawn and throw up all over Wills? Did you scream abuse at a paparazzo? No, you didn't. It's all right, Bea. All you did was have a nice party with your friends, all dressed up in those pretty pretty dresses. Why is everyone so mad? Because you had a party?

Well, yes. You see, you're not allowed to. I'm sorry, Bea. I know it's your big day, able to vote, able to drink, able to get married without your parents' consent, able to get into all those thrilling nightclubs Wills and Harry have been telling you about--but a party? A themed one? No, no. It's a round of lager in the pub, my sweet. That's all you're allowed. It's because you're so rich, Bea. £10,000 on a frock? All that mindless extravagance? On a party? Who do you think you are, Victoria Beckham?

Didn't you read in the papers the other day, that someone's worked out how much us loyal subjects pay in taxes each year to support your grandma? 62p a year. Sixty-two whole pence. For every tax payer! I know, it's extortionate! That's more than a pint of milk! You could buy a big bag of Monster Munch for that! 62p! I don't know how you sleep at night, Bea, I really don't. All that money being extorted from us. For someone on minimum wage, that amounts to about seven minutes of working time. Seven minutes a year! All for those gilt-encrusted carriages, those pastel suits, those hats.

I hope you're ashamed of yourself, Bea. Next time you want to have a nice party, won't you please think of us proles, and how upsetting it is to see you splashing your money about like that, enjoying yourself. Enjoying! I hope you're proud of yourself, and how much you've hurt us all.

A themed party for your eighteenth. Disgraceful.

Naked Eyes--the meme

Borrowed this from Elizabeth Chadwick's blog. Also, at some point, I intend to write a similar post to hers on soundtracking: since I don't have enough music for the Naked series, I'll ask: what do we want to see? Sundown, Inc. the album? Sophie Green, the album? Almost Human? Speak up, my lovelies.

This is answered from the point of view of Laura, the heroine of Naked Eyes.

I am: Laura Kincaid, cabin crew with Zephyr Airlines.
I want: To get my newly acquired Second Sight under control. These visions are damaging my calm.

I wish: I could control the Sight and look into the future when I want, not when it wants.
I hate: Ghosts turning up and scaring the crap out of me.
I miss: The old ignorance I used to live in.

I fear: I'm going crazy.

I hear: Voices.

I wonder: How the hell I ended up being able to see ghosts and visions.
I regret: I'm not sure I do.
I am not: Psychic. I'm just...intuitive.
I dance: Only when no one can see me.
I sing: In the shower, or else people's ears bleed.
I cry: When things are sad. When I think about pets who've died. When I'm tired and frustrated. When my heart is broken.

I am not always: Particularly coherent, especially when a vision has shaken me about like a dog's bone.

I made: a mess of things with Jack.
I write: Postcards, and that's about it.

I confuse: Passengers, especially when I know what they're going to say before they say it.

I need: Some time off.

I should: Go and see a doctor. Or a psychiatrist. Or a priest.

I start: Trying to explain this new power to myself, and then run out of ideas.
I finish: Every chocolate bar I'm given.
I tag: the Great Escape Artists.

Update

Tinker died last night. From how cold and stiff he is, I'd say it wasn't long after we went to bed. See, he's a good lad, saving us the trauma (not to mention expense) of a vet trip. I didn't really want to take this pathetic bundle up there and sit in the waiting room surrounded by healthy fluffy cats who just need their claws clipping.

One more thing. When I carefully laid him down on the floor, he was mostly on one side with his paws tucked under him. This morning, he's spreadeagled, like a tiger rug. Quite apart from the fact that he'll never fit into a neat box to be buried, he looks really ridiculous. But that's my Tinkerbell, always making me laugh.

Tinker, ma belle

Or Tinker Mabel as my mother calls him. He's still with us, just. Looks like he's going to hang on. If he's still here tomorrow morning, we're taking him to the vet. Not fair to let him be like that.

Just an update.

End of an era

When I was five, our old dog Jenny died. I cried for ten broken-hearted minutes, then realised that without the cat-hating terrier, my parents would finally have to make good on their promise to get me a kitten. I don't know where this obsession with cats came from, but it's been there since I was old enough to speak coherent one-syllable words. It's still there. Every birthday, at least half of my cards and presents are cat-themed.

Anyway. After a suitable greiving period, we picked up two adorable little black and white kittens, a pair of girls called Tinkerbell and Willow (come on, I was six. My brother wanted to call her Princess Willow). After the first trip to the vets, however, we discovered that Tinkerbell was actually a boy...biologically, anyway. He was never large with the butch. Officially shortened to Tinker, he remained a sweet, affectionate, delicate and entirely cowardly little cat. And a definite fairy. Most of the time, I call him Tinkerbell anyway.

Four years later we adopted a new baby, a manic ginger furball called Meu, who was adored by everybody. Clearly, 1992 was a good year for animals, since we also acquired Honey, the most gorgeous, flirtatious, adoring dog there ever was. A year later, we added tiny, terrified Candy to the family, an abused tabby kitten so highly strung that even after years of affection she still ran like crazy if one of us made a sudden movement.

But all good things come to an end. I used to count off the years on my hands and think that in the far-off days when I would be in my twenties, it would be time to start saying goodbye to these animals. It started three years ago when my beautiful, queen-like Meu suddenly had to be put down after thrombosis got the better of her. A shock, not least because she was only eleven, which is mid-sixties in human terms.

I prepared myself for Tinker and Willow to go next. But it was Honey who had a heart attack last summer and scared us all to death. So engrossed were we with her that it was with some shock that we realised our odd duck Willow, the Amazing Quacking Cat, had deteriorated badly over the course of the summer. She died of cancer in September, aged seventeen, in my arms on the way to the vet to be put down.

When, five months later, Candy stopped running away from every loud noise or quick movement, my heart sank. I wanted the vet to tell me it was something else, something requiring expensive medication and frequent trips to the surgery for astronomical blood tests, but of course it wasn't. It was cancer too, and in an almost identical fashion to Willow, my tiny tabby died shortly after, at home. She was less than thirteen.

From five down to two, and both Honey and Tinker showed signs of slowing down. Since his litter-mate died, he'd been confused, but it was after Candy stopped following him everywhere, slavishly adoring, that poor Tinker really started to look hurt and confused. And old. Like Gus the Theatre Cat, his coat became shabby, he was thin as a rake. The vet took a blood sample and told us that his overactive thyroid was now very underactive, so he ought to be piling on weight. He wasn't. Tumours in his stomach were taking care of that.

While Tinker staggered around like the old man he was, Honey got slower, and slower. She stopped eating. She stopped barking. She just lay around, looking apologetic. For a dog who lived to please her family, she was causing too much trouble to be happy with herself. We eventually called the vet to put her to sleep in the back garden, two days after her fourteenth birthday.

And then there was one. And not for much longer: Tinker woke me this morning lying on my chest, breathing badly and hardly able to lift his head. He's made it downstairs, out into the garden and now back to the kitchen where he's just lying there, looking sad. I don't think he'll see Monday. I'd be surprised if he sees Sunday.

So. Sugar and Spike are tearing around, fluffily beautiful, four and a half months old and the start of a new era. But I'll miss the old one. Four cats and a dog, which I learned to say in Italian and French at school, a phrase I still say now without quite realising, an unchanging situation for ten years. An important ten years. I'm really not a kid any more, because if I was I'd still have my fab five.

Those kittens are going to suffer far more cuddles than they can bear in the next few days.

Try not to actually die laughing

It would be so messy.

Author's Fight song

Damn, wish I knew the tune of British Grenadiers. Well, I probably do. It's probably one of those ones that goes dum du-dum dumdum or something. Lots of tuba. Doesn't grenadier sound like a drink?

Cool, huh?

Except I think I need to go to more places...



create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands



create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

Oh well. In two weeks' time that will also have Georgia highlighted. And...er...I really need to make good on that plan to go to Iceland. And to Transylvania. And Australia, after I've won the lottery. And maybe skiing in Norway next year?

Bad fan

Been neglecting my fandom. So...

Which Buffy The Vampire Slayer quote are you?

"For I am Xander, the king of cretins." -- Xander; Season 1, 'The Witch'Ouch. You sound like you're smarting a bit from something you've recently done, and it's making you feel lower than a snake's belly. (Sorry, always wanted to say that.) Lighten up! Things aren't as bad as they seem, and neither are you. I promise.
Take this quiz!








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Heh.

Four things.

One: King Roger won Wimbledon. Again. Four times in a row... like Pistol Pete. Love Federer. Thoroughly, bloody nice chap. Not bad at tennis, either.


Two: Italy won the world cup. Which was nice. I wanted them to win because a) every single person in Italy LOVES football almost as much as they love their mamas, and right now this minute will be screaming around as fast as their Vespas will allow them, streaming red, white and green flags and yelling "Viva Italia!"; and b) because if they lost, then France would win. And we just can't allow France to have won the World Cup more than us. It's just Not British.


Three: My baby boy turned eighteen today. Handsome Tinker, who actually now resembles Gus the Theatre Cat, is now old enough to get married, drink and vote. If this was the case, he'd probably vote for the removal of Sugar and Spike, who seem to think he's some sort of multi-purpose entertainment centre. Bat his tail, leap on his back, make him yowl! Fun! Fun!



Four: I posted a review of Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest on my ol' chum Reese Witherfork's 2 Minute Movie Review site. Go knock yourself out.

My Past Life

I love these things. The other day I found out my superhero alter-ego is SuperGirl. About the only thing we have in common is being blonde--and I bet she's a more real blonde than I am!

Still. This explains my mild obsession with assassins in books. Next thing, I'll be told I was a glamorous mistress...it would explaion those recurring dreams. Or are they just wishful thinking?

In a Past Life...

You Were: A Charming Assassin. Where You Lived: Portugal. How You Died: Buried alive.

Who Were You In a Past Life?

A Portugese assassin. Hey, does that mean I can knock Ronaldo off?