milkweed

I can't think of anything useful to say about anything that's happened recently. I don't know. We keep going. What else are we going to do?

So let's talk about milkweed instead. Actually, first, let's talk about blueberries. You may remember a few years ago, Sherlock was very excited over the concept of pink blueberries, but they never actually materialized on the plant. We had a few flowers and then nothing. Well...this year was a bit better.



You can see they are vaguely pink. Not are. Were. That was about as far as they got because the birds ate them. Apparently birds really like pink blueberries. Perhaps they think they are some other sort of especially delicious bird delicacy? Can birds even see color? Anyway, the blue blueberries did better:



Those are some nasturtiums in the background. Again, were is the more appropriate verb as they are mostly dead now and the blueberries are long gone. Everything is autumnish and a bit sad, which seems appropriate. Everything except the chard, which will survive unto the end of the world.

Sherlock and I went for a walk the other day and came home with an explosion of milkweed (I'm sure that's the right collective noun).



Obviously I now regret my entire life. It's worse than glitter. Why did I ever allow it into the flat? It's in all the corners of all the rooms. It's stuck to Maf's tail and Greg's hair (where it blends in nicely), it's between my toes and on top of the fridge. Little tumbleweeds of fluff everywhere. It's like a very soft, peaceful Western. Maf likes to chase them. And yet, somehow, the seed pods still appear to have just as much fluff as they did when we brought them inside. By spring, we shall be buried in the stuff.

Take care of yourselves. 

a cause for celebration

Mycroft’s A level results have arrived. Sherlock has declared this an occasion for celebration, by which he means cake. He and Mrs Hudson are plotting, and he’s invited his mum to dinner. (By invited, I mean he rang her up and demanded that she come. Since she’s in [redacted] I think it’s unlikely she’ll make it, but who knows.)

I’m home from work early due to having gashed my arm open by ingloriously slipping on a literal banana peel and falling against the mysteriously sharp edge of a rusted metal ladder. Went to hospital, got stitches, tetanus booster, questioned how this was in fact my life. A banana peel. Honestly.

But! I’m happy to be home. Mycroft is home as well (apparently spy school let out early today) (yes, Mycroft, don’t call it that, I know), waiting kindly to open his results until we’re all here, apparently not nervous at all. So now we are all waiting for L, some of us (Mycroft) more patiently than others…

It’s not as if any of us doubt he did brilliantly, but I’d still like to know! 

home again

Mycroft is done with his exams and gets to come home. L and I are going to meet him, have a ride on the bikes, get some lunch. Sherlock has campaigned to be allowed to stay home alone and bake Mycroft a cake all by himself. 'Alone' meaning that Mrs Hudson and security will still be in the building of course, but he'll be alone in the flat. He has absolutely promised not to set anything on fire. He's promised so often that one can only find it worrying. I'll let you know how it goes.

Update: I've taken Sherlock to the shops to buy cake ingredients. I can't tell if all of these things will be going in the cake or if some were chosen specifically as red herrings, but this was his shopping list:

• chocolate
• cocoa powder
• a lot of eggs
• something very spicy
• some sort of tinned fish
• a banana
• edible gold dust
• a can of Coke

I can only hope the fish won't really be going in the cake, but I'm not counting on anything. We didn't find edible gold dust, but we got those little silver cake decorating balls instead, which he pronounced 'not nearly as good.'

Update 2: Just about to have lunch with Mycroft as I write this. I've told him about the cake. His reaction: 'He's going to bake a sardine into my slice.' I admit this hadn't occurred to me, but that is the sort of thing Sherlock would do. Hopefully not in this case, as he is genuinely excited to have Mycroft home, but I'm not ruling anything out. I told Mycroft I'd switch slices with him. The things we do for love.

Update 3: We're home! Cake has been consumed and was fish-free. Half the sardines were eaten by Sherlock on toast and the rest were marinating in the Coke to see if they dissolved. They're still there. We've had worse things in the fridge.

The cake was a reasonably standard chocolate one, but Sherlock had cut it into pieces and build a sort of house out of it (because it was a welcome home cake, you see). Inside, there was an anatomical heart made from jelly. Because home is where the heart is and also because he couldn't find the jelly brain mould we have. Mrs. Hudson helped him with the heart. 

happy birthday mycroft!

Note: not his actual birthday. That’s next week, inconveniently on a Tuesday, but we’re whisking him away tomorrow to celebrate. A ride to the coast, fish and chips, ice cream, maybe even swimming…? Or maybe we’ll all get rained on and soaked through without the swim, though the weather looks promising at the moment.

Mycroft, we are, as always, both proud and happy to be a part of your life. I hope the summer job works out to be everything you hope it will. I’m sure you’ll impress everyone there and at university. And as you start out on this new phase of your life, please be sure to keep visiting us for holidays for as long as you can take our terrible jokes and L’s terrible dancing. ;)

I was going to to include a photo of baby swans here, but they were so far away (and I didn’t want to try getting much closer) that they’re just little greyish spots in the grass. Please imagine baby swans. 

well, well (a deep subject)

I've unwisely taught Sherlock a joke that my grandmother told me. Actually joke might be putting it too strongly, but as a result he and L keep having exchanges like this:

Sherlock: *asks a question*
L: Well--
S: *very seriously* A deep subject.

And then he cackles and L groans and I pretend I'm not still amused, but despite having heard this probably ten times today I still sort of am.

L is recovering. More slowly than he'd like, obviously -- well, more slowly than any of us would like. Ideally he'd be all better again by now, but naturally he's the most impatient since it's him stuck on the sofa.

One Mrs H has made more cake and the other has sent round a restrained bouquet of flowers. I'll leave you to guess which is which. I'm relieved about the flowers actually. When she phoned to say we should expect a delivery, that didn't occur to us as an option and we were guessing anything from a live crocodile (Sherlock) to a bionic knife-proof leg (L).

I keep searching for something useful to say about my own emotions in regard to this, but I don't think there is anything really. I'm still angrier than I ought to be. It's not really any worse than someone hurting him face to face. The intention is the same whether it's a trap or a direct attack. It's jarring though. Like having an IED show up on a London street. 

happy new year!

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope 2015 was good to you and that 2016 will be even better. As much as I love Christmas (L says I don't love Christmas, I just love tinsel, but he exaggerates - although I do also love tinsel), I might like Jan. 1 more. There's a quote (which might be from Anne of Green Gables, which strikes me as odd because I've never read it so how do I know the quote? but anyhow) that says "Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it."

Well, today the whole year is fresh with no mistakes in it, and that's a nice feeling.

Last night, Mycroft took us all to Kew, which was lit up for the holidays... (all pictures by L)

Lights, carol-singing holly bushes, fountain light shows, fire lanterns, hot chocolate and toasted marshmallows...it was great. Excellent way to end the year. 

This morning we went for a run, which I've done on probably most New Years Days of my adult life, but I must say it's much more pleasant without a hangover. I recommend it - not having a hangover, that is. Not necessarily the running.