Hi, this is Lestrade. I'm sorry, John can't come to the internet right now because he's a silly bugger who doesn't take proper care of himself or sleep, ever as far as I can tell, and now he's in bed with a fever. I won't say he deserves it because he looks like death and I feel sorry for him but I might say it later when he's feeling better.
I don't know how he writes in this thing every day. I don't know what else to say.
We're almost in the clear. Sherlock's tearing around the flat telling terrible jokes to make his brother laugh (One atom says to another atom, "I think I lost an electron." "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'm positive.") and trying to ride Deimos, who's refusing, quite sensibly, to do anything but lie in front of the fire.
Mycroft is demanding real food for dinner tonight instead of more chicken soup. Mrs Hudson, thank god, shows no sign of getting ill. I have a bit of a scratchy throat, but the air's dry in here, especially with the fire going.
Sherlock's feeling better, and Mycroft's feeling worse. You can tell by the way his eyes glaze over when I'm reading. I think he's more at a Dr Seuss level than Camus at the moment. Or perhaps that's not the thing to read a child with a fever and an already-vivid imagination. All his books seemed to me as if they might well have been written under the influence of some sort of hallucinogen.
Mycroft's got it. They spent the day on either end of the sofa, two unhappy, snot-filled bookends. Poor kids. To the anon who suggested grated fresh ginger in the hot lemon, Sherlock loathes it, and Mycroft thinks it's the best thing on Earth. I like it myself, so, two out of three. Not bad.
I'm reading them Camus. The Plague. Mycroft's idea. I've never read it before (should I be ashamed to admit that? Probably), and it's a surprisingly good plot. I'm surprised Hollywood hasn't made some blockbuster action/thriller/romance out of it. Nice it remembers where the real blame lay too. Everyone talks about the rats, but it of course it was the fleas.
Sherlock's a bit better, but still home from school. Slept most of the night last night. Only woke me up around 3am, quite warm with fever, and unsurprisingly thirsty. Water, something for the fever, and I had one clingy, sleepy little boy. I let him sleep in my bed, which led to a bit of drama when his mum let herself in around 4am and went to his room to find his bed empty.
I got a call from Sherlock's school today. (I wonder how many entries are going to start like this.) It was not about tennis or kiwis, and I was momentarily relieved, until his teacher transfered me to the school nurse's office and a tiny, sad voice came on the line to say: "John I don't feel good wanna come home now."
As phase one of Operation Sleep in the Night Time Like a Normal Person, we went to the park today after Sherlock got out of school. (I'm still getting rumblings about the kiwi tennis incident, but no further action has been taken.) We got a snack at Louis Patisserie* (yes, by "snack" I mean cakes, but they're really good cakes, all right?) and then walked to Hampstead Heath to let both the dogs and the boys run around for a bit.
However, I do think it must induce some sort of alternate state of consciousness. I do feel more rested than if I'd stayed up reading or even watching old movies (4am is not the hour of the wolf; it's the hour of Bogart, Bacall, and Audrey Hepburn). Watching the ball fly back and forth and listening to nonsensical scores announced in rather lovely French accents (all the umpires sound French to me, even the ones specifically pointed out as being Swedish or Spanish) probably leads one into some sort of deep meditative state normally only achieved through years of study and isolation in a Buddhist monastery.
When I started this thing, I couldn't imagine how people posted every day, or even every week. Granted, I didn't have a lot going on in my life then, but I think it would've been just as hard when I was in Afghanistan. Not that it was dull there, but how many times can one write got shelled, spent ten hours in the operating room, scrubbed up so many times my skin is cracking, please send lotion? It would've got a bit repetitive is what I'm saying, I suppose.
Edward Gorey said: "Life is intrinsically, well, boring and dangerous at the same time. At any given moment the floor may open up. Of course, it almost never does; that's what makes it so boring." The same can be said of war with a slightly higher danger to boredom ratio.
Life with Sherlock and Mycroft, on the other hand, is keeping me so busy (and with almost no repetition) that I find myself somewhat behind in my blogging.
The first, from Beth, we made today. Filo triangles with spinach and feta. Once we got the hang of folding them and made sure to absolutely drench them in olive oil so the filo didn't rip into tiny pieces, it didn't go too badly! The last two looked like actual triangles instead of strange, misshapen lumps of a dubiously food-like nature. They also puffed up a bit and the filling bubbled out the edges. Photo and recipe:
First attempt. Started to go a bit better after this and they're in the oven now. Did you know you can make spitballs out of filo dough? Sherlock's big discovery of the day. Typing this on my mobile is not fun so thats all for now.
Where were we? Yes, right, eating the best pizza in existence. Well, not quite. We had to order it first.
The young woman in charge (short black hair, multiple piercings, flour-covered...everything) tore herself away from feeding wood into the brick oven, slapped her hands down on the counter, and glared at Sherlock. "Whaddya want?" she said.
I suspect it might've sent more delicate children off crying, but this was Sherlock. "Large with olives and anchovies and pineapple and sausage and I wanna Coke too."
One of the kind people giving my spinach suggestions (it's almost gone! It's like an internet miracle) said spinach and feta pizza. Good timing, as the boys are starting to get rebellious at the thought of spinach for one more meal. Pizza, however, clearly elevates spinach to a higher, more appetizing state of being.
Cara asked in the comments of the last post about Australian spiders. Having done some research, my verdict is: No thank you. Someone else left a link to a camel spider devouring a lizard, and while I'm not sure "awesome" is the word I would choose, it was certainly impressive. I hardly know what to say about it, except that I'm glad that's not my face.
This post is mainly an excuse to share this video:
I haven't been sleeping all that well; partly pain and partly nightmares, Sand Clowns, etc. Have you ever seen a camel spider? Don't google them. I mean it.
You're doing it anyway, aren't you? Don't say I didn't warn you. Here's a bet, if you care to take it: at least 12% of all nightmares related to the desert, or fighting in it, involve camel spiders.
I got two helpful spinach suggestions yesterday, one of which I've looked up a recipe for: palak paneer, an Indian spinach dish with cheese. Sounds good and also as if it will use a lot of spinach, which is key. Tonight, though, we had Lestrade to dinner and he's not keen on Indian food.
(I think he's one of those poor unfortunate souls who can't tolerate anything too spicy without searing his poor little taste buds right off. He refuses to try the new Thai place down the road, and he won't touch wasabi. The spinach recipe isn't spicy at all in that sense, but better not to risk it.) Anyhow I'll need to buy spices and cheese, and today was a bit busy for that.
When I made that New Year's resolution to learn to cook one thing so I could give Mrs Hudson a break once in a while, I did not mean spinach. Apparently I should've made my intentions clearer because the universe, in the form of a rogue shopping delivery (Mrs H disclaims all responsibility, and I know I didn't do it) has presented me with a truly enormous bag of the stuff.
I made what I feel may be a potentially life changing error in judgement last night. It went like this:
Time: 3am or thereabouts
Location: Living room sofa
I couldn't sleep, due to various boring aches and pains. There might have been a nightmare about Sand Clowns. (If you've seen Star Wars, they're a bit like sand people. Just don't ask.) Harry (mad tennis fiend) had emailed me a link about some charity exhibition match for the floods in Australia. It turned out to be a live video stream of the event. I thought I'd watch for about five minutes and then maybe try to get back to sleep, but apparently by "exhibition match" they actually meant "a bunch of top players goofing around on the court." As it wasn't proper tennis, it was quite entertaining.
Harry informs me that I tagged the last post 'lestrade' and yet it contained nothing about our date. Apparently, this is unacceptable. I'm not sure how much I should say, considering his sergeant reads this blog (so he tells me), but here we go.
I read to the boys before I left. Sherlock was so tired, he fell asleep in the middle of a chapter (admittedly it was a chapter about different sorts of rocks, so perhaps not the most gripping material he's ever been exposed to). [to which...] (Mycroft you know people don't talk like that. Not ever.) [But it is correct.]
The ice skating went shockingly well. I just wanted to get them out of the house and stop the whinging for a bit, or at least change the tune of the whinging and perhaps prevent anymore breakages. Now I really do wish I had a camera, or at least that I'd remembered to use the one on my mobile. I think we may have found a sport Mycroft enjoys.
Neither of them had been before, and I hadn't been for about twenty years, so I expected a lot of falling over, bruises, and tears (hopefully not from me). I did get what I expected in every respect. The bruises were mainly mine, and the tears were all Sherlock's, as he does get weepy when he's overtired, and Mycroft did fall over a few times.
We made it home about ten last night after train delays and engine trouble. Apparently their mum's ability to control the world does not extend to British Rail. I suppose that would be too much to hope for. As a result they're both overtired and crabby. This means Mycroft's hiding in his room reading Chaucer in his pyjamas, and Sherlock is... Well. Two minor explosions so far today, one broken lamp, and one glob of spinach directed at my face.
The train's stopped on the tracks. Nothing but fields and rain and sheep for miles, although Mycroft says he can see what he thinks is Hadrian's Wall with his telescope. There's a problem with the engine. We've been sitting here an hour.
We got a brief glimpse of the stars last night before it clouded over again. Mycroft keeps talking about Utah. I keep wincing at the thought of seven hours on a plane with Sherlock. It makes me consider mad things like demanding his mum hire us a private jet, or buying about fifty of those eight-sided Rubik's Cubes.
It's our last day here, and it's doing what it's been doing since the night I committed gross acts of bagpipery. I feel it's some sort of judgement on me. Deb insists it's her grandfather weeping for joy at seeing (hearing) his son come home.
Mycroft is sulking in his room with Ovid, Homer, and Aeschylus (all in Greek, of course). Sherlock stuck it out with him for a while (he's learning the Greek alphabet; not sure whether to be pleased or concerned at the prospect of them sharing a common language I haven't a hope of understanding), but as ever there's only so long he can sit still.
9pm: Dinner. Irrelevant, but excellent. It was salmon with some kind of dill sauce, crispy roasted potatoes, and mustard greens. I was suspicious of the mustard greens (I've not totally overcome the childhood aversion to green things), but they were really nice, tangy and peppery and excellent the with the sauce. (Mycroft wouldn't touch the sauce. Apparently he draws the line at "slimy white stuff." I was rather relieved, as I always am when he acts his age.)
Well. I did it. This post is mostly going to be me justifying it. The next one might be more of the same. I think it's going to take quite a lot of justifying.
9am: She's buttering me up with scones. They were waiting outside my door when I woke up, along with a paper, tea, honey from her own hives, and raspberry jam from her garden. The china's old and must be custom made. It's got what I swear is the actual castle we're staying in, along with tiny peasants working the fields, and outsized brown deer. It's paper thin. Even Sherlock's careful with it.
Apparently I look like Deb's father. Sorry to say, having seen a photo, that this is actually true. She's not just mad. Or, she's not mad in this specific instance. Her father went off to boarding school and never came back to Scotland and therefore her grandfather's spirit is unable to rest. (Hint: this is the the mad bit.)
My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to stroll round the castle in a kilt with a set of bagpipes and make the extremely late Lord Dinmere believe his son's come home. I see several flaws in this plan, not the least of which is that she still insists I've got to do it sans pants. And shouldn't the kilt be her family's tartan? More practical objection: I can't play the bagpipes.
None of this is getting through to her, and Sherlock thinks it's a brilliant idea. Mycroft is scoffing at the idea of ghosts, but I caught him googling orbs just now.
(Note to self: if the Late Lord Dinmere [hereafter LLD] is actually haunting the place, why wasn't it on the website? You'd think they could charge more with a genuine ghost. She seems sincere, but is this merely an excuse to rob me of my pants? If so, may need to recommend professional help; that is not the action of a sane person.)
On a less drafty note, we hauled Mycroft's telescope down to the loch and/or lake last night just before sunset, along with a couple of blankets, a folding chair, a flask of hot cocoa, and some biscuits. (In some respects, my love for Deb is unshaken, at least when it comes to biscuits.)
The water was so still it was like seeing two skies, one above and one below. No clouds. Only a tiny sliver of a moon, like a silver thread (or a gray hair) stuck on black fabric. Except the sky's not really black, is it? Even at night. It's this sort of black-blue-purple. It's black like a bird's wing. And those ancient Greek blokes were right, the stars do look like holes in the sky with light from beyond shining through them.
Sherlock fell asleep around ten, despite the cocoa, and I drifted off for a bit myself. Mycroft was still glued to the eyepiece at 11pm when I said we had to go in to bed. I think this phase may last a while.
The B&B is a castle. I don't know why this surprised me, given Baskerville Hall. We've got two rooms, one with a king bed and one with two singles. For the moment, Sherlock and Mycroft are in the two singles room, or, as it says on the door, The Eminently Green Room. My own is The Providentially Blue Room. Don't ask, I just don't know.
The place is run by Lady Deborah St John Dinmere, aka Deb. Deb is in her sixties, with long gray hair in a plait that reaches to her waist. She wears purple clogs and a lot of tweed, cooks breakfast for all her guests every morning, and then leads shooting parties and brings back venison for dinner. I might be a bit in love.
Note from slightly later in the day: The woman has stolen all my pants. Am considerably less in love, and also pantless. Have been provided with a kilt, which, if I were going to wear (I'm not), I would certainly not even consider wearing WITHOUT PANTS. I am at this moment wearing trousers without pants for the first time in my life and let me tell you, I cannot sodding recommend it.
The kilt isn't even proper tartan. It's leather. She's not even Scottish! At least, she doesn't sound it. What is this? She wants to know if I play the bagpipes, and there's something about appeasing a ghost. How is this my life.
More later. We're going down to the lake, or possibly loch, to look for a suitable place to set up Mycroft's telescope later. He's set on the castle tower, but I want to talk to Deb first. Looks a bit tippy to me. Then again, I don't actually want to talk to Deb at all in case she assaults me with haggis.
I'm writing this on the train, where we have been for approximately eighteen years. It's clearly a magical time-suspending train because Mycroft and Sherlock are still the same age as when we got on, and acting it as well for once.
"Sherlock, will you sit still?"
"Can't make me."
"You've been fidgeting for an hour! Read a book. And stop making that horrible face."
"Your face is horrible."
"You're insufferable."
"I know you are, but what am I?"
"John, you can't send him to that school any longer. His mind has atrophied. He'll have a two digit IQ before the term is over."
And on, and on. And on. Thank god we've left Phobos and Deimos behind. They'd take up half the compartment all on their own. Is it bad to let Sherlock swing from the luggage rack, do you think?
We're going to Scotland, in fact. I got an email with an itinerary and B&B info from herself before I even asked about Mycroft's sky-watching expedition. Mycroft's happy and packing up his telescope. Sherlock's happy because he doesn't have to go back to school yet. (Sometimes I do wonder about making him go to school. He loves learning, and I worry a bit that school's going to knock that love out of him. I know they're slowing him down. But he's got to learn to actually speak to children his own age at some point, yes?) Mrs Hudson has declined. I think she'll be happy to be on her own for a while. Lestrade has work, obviously. [Ask him anyway.] (Relationship advice now, Mycroft? Really?) [He calms you and Sherlock down.] (...I'm just going to move on.)
The end times are upon us:
Thousands of dead fish washed up last week on a 20 mile stretch along the Arkansas River between Ozark and Clarksville. On New Year's Eve thousands of red-winged blackbirds tumbled from the sky in Beebe, Arkansas. [source]
My grandmother would've loved this. She'd say it'd be rains of toads next and "all those bastards would get what's coming to them." Very keen on bastards getting what was coming to them, my Gran. I think by "bastards" she generally meant the Inland Revenue. And occasionally the U.S. government. Oh, and very often the local butcher. She said he frenched his ribs wrong. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but it sounds pretty bad.
The town we're heading to isn't far from her old house. Maybe we'll drive by and have a look. Got to pack now and wake up Sherlock. He's sleeping with my copy of Gray's Anatomy. That boy needs a teddy bear. Do they make a Teddy Ruxpin that reads medical texts and perhaps astrophysics?
No, not the Big Gay Closet, as Harry will insist on calling it. Lestrade got me in the comments of the last post. Yeah, I did used to smoke, in medical school. Try going to medical school and not smoking, see how far you get. Got time to eat? No. Time to sleep? God, no. But there's always time for a fag.
I picked it up again in Afghanistan for a bit, mainly for the same reason. Also, of course, cancer seems a bit farther away when you're getting shot at on a daily basis, no matter what logic and common sense tell you. I suppose the same goes for getting shouted at by doctors and nurses while you're trying to learn to intubate someone for the first time or find a particularly deep vein. Medical school: not unlike war in many respects.
I never really got addicted though. (If you listen carefully, you can now hear the sound of Harry and Lestrade restraining themselves from punching me in the nose.) I dropped the habit easily enough the first time, and of course the second time I was too high on morphine to begin to notice any withdrawal symptoms. It's just not my thing, I think. And I do appreciate the effort certain members of my readership make not to taste like an ashtray when I kiss them.
I never did get back to the computer yesterday. The smoke was more of an aquamarine this time, and it smelled of gardenias. Rather nice, really.
Anyhow, the party: we were all there but for Harry, watching the ham cook, by 6pm. Harry got there about an hour later with, get this, a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice. Lestrade was impressed as well.
"I'm trying to quit smoking and all, but I don't torture myself with candy cigarettes," he said.
Harry made a face I remember quite well from childhood as meaning mum hadn't let her do something stupid like eat an entire bottle of olives or ride her bike all the way to her friend's house across town. I guess she has to be her own mum now. That's got to be hard. [Harder than it is for you?] (...Mycroft. You can't ask me these things in person?) [This is easier.]
...All right. Yes, harder than it is for me. I wasn't a jumping off bridges, eating entire bottles of anything sort of child. I don't drink myself slowly into an early grave, or suck on cancer sticks, or shoot up, or gamble, or drive irresponsibly. I sign up for a year's tour of one of the world's hottest vacation hotspots, complete with sand in my eyes, blood up to my elbows, and a whole variety of chaps who want to kill me. What I mean is that the sort of things I do are not the sort mum ever could've kept me from.
Anyhow, the party: it was pretty excellent, actually. Good food, movies, fireworks on the telly at midnight. Oh, and Their Mum sent us a little video of the fireworks where she is. Red Square, in the snow (note to self: check this isn't compromising national security or something before you post it) <As if I'd allow you to post it if it were.> (...Right. Is anyone not reading my blog before I post it? Is there actually any point in hitting that Publish Post button?) ANYWAY.
I can't figure out how to upload her movie, but it looked a lot like this.
The boys were asleep by midnight, so there was only Harry to make faces when Lestrade snogged me. Due to poor timing and circumstances beyond my control, I've never actually been seeing someone at midnight on the new year before. It was quite nice.
You were probably there. I know that because the majority of London was there too. How many million people do they claim to shove into Times Square every year? That's how many were at that Sainsbury's yesterday.
We did something like that wedge formation the Romans used to break their enemies' ranks in battle. Lestrade first (he has something of an aura of policeman about him that makes people take notice) with Mrs Hudson just behind and me in the back holding both the boys by the hand. Mycroft wasn't pleased, I know, and 12 is a bit old for that, but I kept losing him when I wasn't actively holding onto him.
Whole stretches of the shelves were empty like London was expecting the apocalypse instead of a holiday that does, let's face it, come around every single year. The only left in any quantity was tinned soup. There was a tower of tomato with a little girl on top of it, apparently reenacting the fall of Saigon with her mum as helicopter.
It was a precision operation on our part. We got the veg, stock, and root beer (it was for the ham??) that we needed and got the hell out. Mycroft walked with Mrs Hudson (and dignity befitting his age) on the way back. (He helped carry the shopping too. I'd get in trouble for calling him sweet, so I won't.)
Lestrade let Sherlock ride on his shoulders. I got the impression it was a first for Sherlock. He wanted to hold my hand the first few minutes, and normally he's so fearless as to give me nightmares.
More about the actual party later. I've got to go. Sherlock's a made a smoke bomb again, and I don't think he meant to this time.
In training, I had a sergeant who talked a lot about death. I guess to get us used to the idea, to get us joking about it. "When you die, and some of you will die, die with dignity, with honor, with resolution."
As a result, I can't think about New Year's resolutions, about this great beginning of a new, unknown life, without thinking about death. I think if anyone had asked me, at any point in Afghanistan, if I was ready to die, I would've said yes. Not that I wanted to. Just, I felt I'd done enough with my life, I suppose. And when I got back, that same feeling, stronger. Not "done enough with" so much as "done with".
And now I'm anything but done, so, resolutions:
1. Learn to cook one thing so Mrs Hudson can have a night off once in a while
2. Keep anyone I care for from getting kidnapped
3. Live
Phobos and Deimos are asleep on my feet. One great, slobbering, jowly head per foot, wetting down my brand new Christmas slippers. The boys are all tucked in. Harry's asleep and sober on the sofa. Mrs Hudson's asleep in her own bed downstairs. Lestrade's most likely asleep in mine, which makes me either a very dedicated blogger or a bloody fool. Good night.
