work and questions

Well, that's my two days at the surgery done. We'll see when she wants me next. Not for a while I'd imagine, or she would've said before I left. It was all right. Strange. Very... I don't know. Just very different from what I was used to, I suppose. I kept looking around and expecting to be somewhere else entirely.

L came for lunch today, or rather brought us lunch today - he brought a sandwich for Sarah as well, which was kind, and showed up on his bike looking rugged and manly and turning heads, as he does (and denies doing). He and Sarah seemed to get on well, which was nice. He insists she likes me, which... I don't know? Wasn't paying attention. If so, it doesn't seem to be making things awkward, so that's all right.

It's the last day of the month, and I still have quite a few unanswered questions. A lot of them are 'what's your favourite' or 'pick just one' sorts of question, which apparently I find really difficult. Here are some answers.

Random Anon Lurker asked about Americanisms or Canadianisms, and this isn't quite that, but it is the first thing I thought of when I read the question:

celebrity

RR wanted to know about any celebrity encounters I might've had, and Random Anon Lurker wanted teenage celebrity crushes (although that might've been meant just for L, but I'm answering anyway).

Last one first: Humphrey Bogart, Katherine Hepburn, Robin Sparkles (shut it), Angelina Jolie, DeForest Kelley...and I don't know if fictional characters count, but if they do, then Archie Goodwin and Lily Rowan, both from the Nero Wolfe mysteries. It's an odd collection, I know.

I don't know what else to say about the crushes - I certainly have no explanation for them - but if you have specific questions, you're welcome to ask.

Celebrity encounters... Well, there was one with someone you've never heard of, but for an Army surgeon, he was a celebrity. He'd been around forever, gone just about everywhere, awarded the George Cross for retrieving five injured soldiers from a mine field all on his own, nearly died of his wounds afterward. Basically, he was who I wanted to be when I grew up.

He was with us briefly in Kosovo, pre-haunted-mental-hospital. They'd sent him to do a report on medicine in modern warfare. That was about the time they were finally making adjustments in procedure for the fact that we were treating as many local civilian casualties as military - if not more.

He was very quiet. Barely there, really. It was funny, because the stories I'd heard about him made him seem like the sort of person who could fill up a room just by walking into it, if you know what I mean. He seemed very old to me at the time - in fact, I think he was about five years older than I am now. He watched everything, listened to everyone. I think I ended up telling him a lot more about myself than I meant to, almost certainly more than he wanted to hear.

I don't know if I'd call him kind, exactly, but he was very present. Mrs Holmes reminds me a bit of him actually, in that respect. I'm still honoured to have met him. 

cake and roller skates and birds

X and Innie both wanted to hear something about me and Harry growing up... Let's see.

There's the story I told Sherlock once, wherein I tried to scale our fridge to get the cake our mum had put up there for safe keeping. Harry was ostensibly watching me since our parents were out, but she was in the next room. I managed to fall and break my arm. She put me on her bike and rode all the way to the hospital, singing Folsom Prison Blues - a song which, yes, I liked even at six years old.

And before that... One of my first memories is of being maybe three or four and getting pushed off the swing by some older kids. Harry hit one of them in the stomach with her roller skates. She got in a huge amount of trouble for it, mostly because she refused to apologise to him. I still think it was pretty brave of her. She was only seven herself.

When I was seven and she was ten, we found this baby bird. It was just sitting in the middle of the road, no nest anywhere nearby that we could find. We took it home and hid it in my room. We had all these plans around taking care of it and what we'd do when it grew up, how we could train it to carry messages and spy on our evil neighbour. (Note: not actually evil, just didn't like us stealing his apples.)

my bug

Hi this is Sherlock. I drew a picture of my bug since I couldn't keep it but I think it would've liked to live inside with me all winter where it doesn't get cold and I could have fed it leaves and things because I think that's what it eats and then it could go back outside in the spring but John said no.

I looked up on the internet about people who collect bugs and butterflies and it said how to make a killing jar with a piece of cotton with alcohol on it but I didn't want to kill it, I just wanted to keep it. I have some dead bugs but they were already dead when I found them. Is that how the museum got all their bugs and butterflies? If there were bug detectives, the museum people would get in trouble for that.

John is watching the tennis and Lestrade is still at stupid work and I'm booooooorrrrreeeedddddddd. 

babysitting

The mostly mobile one has been chasing Sherlock around the sofa for over ten minutes. Neither of them are tired of it yet. Amazing. The baby is trying to eat L's mobile, his keys, his fingers, anything within range, basically.

I imagine we should take them to the park soon if we're going to. And then I really don't, but it seems to be going well so far. It's mostly just keeping one away from electrical outlets and changing nappies. Any suggestions? 

raising the dead

Trills wanted to know: It's a well recorded FACT that Medical students throw the best/most outrageous parties. So can we have a story from your uni days please! 


I think the best one was when we didn't take a dead body to the pub with us.

I can't remember whose idea it was (certainly not mine), but I do remember Ian getting the short straw.

When we moved the party from our flat to the pub, Ian was dressed in a hospital gown and painted a pale grey with the help of his girlfriend's make up and some food colouring. He had an arm slung round Will and Alan, and by the time we got through the pub door, they were carrying him.

We parked him at a table, got him a pint, which he didn't touch, and sat with him to watch the match.

He had a toe tag for verisimilitude, but Jamie had decided no one would notice it on his toe (especially since he'd insisted on wearing socks) and had hung it from his ear instead.

We got increasingly concerned looks from everyone in there, customers and staff. They all knew we were med students. Everyone knows what med students get up to with dead bodies.

Eventually someone called the police.

The PC who showed up saw us straight away, came over, started talking to us very seriously about respect for the dead the difference between a prank and a crime, and then Ian tapped him on the shoulder and offered him a pint. I have never seen someone jump so far straight back in one go, before or since.

In conclusion: it's a good thing he had a sense of humour, and in retrospect I'm very glad that wasn't how I met L!

in other news

At some point, someone asked to see our bookshelves. I suspect RR, but I didn't write it down, sorry. This is from Mycroft's room, though the Smyth Grammar is now at school with him. He says to tell you he has the Great Scott with him as well. I think it's some sort of classics joke.

In other news, I had a job interview this morning at a local surgery. It confirmed what you all already knew and what I suppose I knew as well - my schedule really doesn't allow for another job, even with all the free time I have in the day.

The woman who interviewed me - Sarah - was very nice about it, but in the end there are too many variables I can't work around. So, nothing regular, but she is having me in two days next week when one of her other doctors is off, so that's something. She says if it works out (by which I suppose she means I do a decent job and don't fall asleep at my desk?) it might be a semi-regular thing when she needs someone to fill in.

Not bad. 

the haunting

Sort of a prequel to last night's post. In writing about that I remembered that part of why I wanted to go outside in the first place was the building we were in. When I got there, we were in a tent, but in the middle of November they moved us into an abandoned mental hospital.

It was large, and made mainly of brick outside and cement inside. Lots of interior rooms with no windows, or windows that only looked out onto hallways, with green peeling paint and patches of green mould. Barred doors between sections. Marks on the walls.

It had occasional electricity and running water, so in that respect it was a step up. In just about every other way, it was a step so far down that it should've come with a warning sign and some red paint.

About a week after we moved in, one of the nurses told me he'd seen shadows moving on the walls, human-shaped shadows, when he was the only one in the room. I had a patient ask me if the medication she was on could make her hallucinate. She didn't want to say what she'd seen.

white christmas

There were a number of people who asked for army stories, and this isn't really one, but it's what your'e getting anyway.

In 1999, I spent Christmas in a field hospital in Kosovo. I was 28, and it was the furthest I'd even been from home. I'd requested the transfer there, got approval in June, and I was over there by October.

It was... Well, it was bad, obviously. It was worse than I'd thought it would be, worse than I could have imagined it being, because knowing what will happen and seeing it happen around you are completely different things.

But it was also what I'd wanted, in a lot of ways. We were understaffed, and I had no time to think about anything but the work in front of me, and it was necessary work - more cleaning out bullet wounds, less twenty prostate exams in a row followed by ingrown toenails. Mainly, I was happy, or too tired to feel much at all, which was just as good.

And then Christmas day came, and everything was dead quiet for once. I was sent off to get some more sleep, which I did not do. It was snowing like mad, and I went outside, and I remember standing there for... I don't know how long. A long time. At least an hour. The snow was up over my shoes by the time I moved.

It was so cold, and white, and quiet, after those first few months in the field hospital.

That's all. No story really. Just one of those moments I'll always remember. 

Not a real post

I cannot put a real post together today. My brain just isn't working properly. So, how was your day?

Also, if anyone cares to answer, a few posts ago when I was talking about being generally useless at talking about myself, a few of you said that I showed more of myself than I meant to. What did you mean by that, specifically? Or do I want to know?

impossibilities

So. Yesterday, one year ago, we all met Lestrade. It seems impossible that it's been that long and equally impossible that we haven't known him longer. Equally impossible that I haven't known Sherlock and Mycroft for much longer. Completely impossible that a year and a half ago I was still in Afghanistan.

Yesterday we went ice skating and to the Natural History Museum, wandered around, saw dinosaurs, got coffee and hot chocolate, had generally a marvelous day. I took L out for dinner, and afterwards he took me out dancing.

We weren't quite the oldest people there, but they were mainly in their twenties, generally sweaty, often shirtless. It was easy to imagine L there at that age. I wasn't sure I would like it (me and dancing...no) but it was actually a lot of fun. I have never been fond of being packed into crowds like that, that kind of heat and enforced intimacy with strangers and lack of an obvious exit route, but with L there it was...really nice. I didn't notice the rest of it so much, just him.

We got back...late. Later than I had planned. Poor Sally was asleep on the sofa. We definitely owe her baked goods of some sort. Probably more than one sort. She did say Sherlock wasn't much trouble though, which was a report we've previously only heard from Anthea, who would define a small bomb as 'not much trouble'. 

a difficult post to phrase politely

Anon wanted to know: When you've been with girlfriends is there anything you miss about men? And now you're with Greg is there anything you miss about women?

The short  answer is no. The slightly longer answer has to do with romance and why I've historically been pretty terrible at it.

In my early thirties I had a string of short-lived relationships with women - a few months each - and I came out of each of them not missing men exactly, but missing how much simpler things usually were with men. And I know (or assume) your question was referring to physical differences, but I never really cared about those much, it was all fine, all good.

The differences I saw were mental and emotional...and also they were nothing to do with the differences between men and women. They were about the differences in romantic relationships vs non-romantic.

But I didn't realise that for a long time, and in the back of my mind I think I blamed the women I was with for not being more like men. By which I meant wanting more of me than I was willing to give to anything except my job and my team.

And then I met Laura (the woman in Egypt, owner of Biscuit), who had no interest in me romantically, and that was great. And as a side effect, I became slightly less of an idiot.

Well. Maybe slightly less of an idiot. Because mainly it served to convince me that I wasn't fit for a romantic relationship at all. Maybe that was true at the time. Maybe not. I don't know really.

But in answer to your actual question instead of rambling about romance: no. I love the human body, I think it's amazing in just about every form, and there are so many more (and more important) differences - even just physical differences - from person to person than male vs female that I just don't think of it that way. I have occasionally missed someone's specific physical traits, but not not men or women in general.

home

At a tube station I go through pretty often - nice to see Harrow up there, makes me think of Mycroft. 

Pip wanted to know: What is your favorite indulgent treat? Something that you absolutely love but don't eat very often either because it's so bad for you or it's just too good to have very often.


Hmmm. Maybe Lestrade's pasta with X number of cheeses - I think it's meant to be quattro formagio or something, but it's not really four; it varies from three to seven. It's cheesy and delicious. There might be cream as well? Not sure.

Before I knew him and ate his pasta of many cheeses, it was probably the chocolate cake my mum used to make on very special occasions - older relative's birthdays and things like that. It was chocolate cake with chocolate chips in it and some kind of butterscotch frosting. Delicious.

I went to get Mycroft from school today - out on the tube, where I took the above picture, and back in Anthea's 4x4 with her, Mycroft, two large bags of things Mycroft's decided he doesn't need at school, and two even larger dogs.

Dropped Anthea off, took Mycroft and dogs to the park, where the dogs ran as if they'd been confined for a month, which I know they haven't been. At what age do enormous hounds of indeterminate lineage start to calm down?

Mycroft and I walked and talked for a while and then went to fetch Sherlock. The dogs got many hugs from Sherlock's classmates. I don't think they've seen them since Mycroft went to school. There was a lot of face licking and vaguely concerned look from some of the parents, whether about dog germs or their children getting eaten, I'm not sure.

And now, as L said in his post, everyone's here, and it's warm and cosy and generally perfect. One of those nights you wish could last forever.

stars and balls

X has once again kindly let me post her art with my bum in it.  At least this one has L's too! 

Calliope wanted to know: how about your favorite wintertime activity: snow angels, snowman building, decorating, making baked goods, etc.?


Eating the baked goods? Is that an option? Well. The decorations, maybe. I always liked doing the tree, even though Harry and I had some truly absurd (and loud) arguments over who got to hang which ornaments and who got to do the star. The favoured ornaments were the glass birds and the the hand-painted glass balls so we usually traded (after extended negotiations) two birds and a ball for the star-hanging rights.

Mum always put the lights on herself the night before, because she was (and is) convinced that none of us do them right. She stores them wrapped carefully around the cardboard tubes that wrapping paper comes on and lays them all out on the floor before she starts. We were generally not allowed past the threshold of the living room till she was done.

The tree was all we did in the way of decorating, and last year it was all we did here too, but I'd like at least a wreath this year as well, and I want to take the boys to pick out ornaments. I don't have any, and while their mum did find a small box of family ones, the tree was a little sparse. And they hadn't got to pick any of those, and they should have some say. L, do you have ornaments in any of those boxes you haven't unpacked?

non-answer

Nameless said: Given Lestrade's lovely post today, how about telling us about his most endearing quality?


And I've been thinking about it since she asked, without getting any closer to a real answer. Because it's everything. His kindness and love and warmth. His endless patience with the boys and with me and my baggage train of psychological issues.

How angry he gets - still, after all the years he's done this job - at the ways people hurt each other, how hard he works to fix what he can. How deeply he feels what he can't fix.

The ways he lets me know, literally every day, that he cares and wants me in his life. Everything.

And having said I can't pick... Maybe if I had to, it would be the way he doesn't ever give up, on his work, on me, on himself. Even when things are hard, or look hopeless, he's always willing to keep trying.

That seems like such a clumsy description, but it's the best I can do right now and I really wanted to post this tonight.

Someone give me easier questions for next time please.

irrational is relative

RR wanted to know: John--have you any irrational fears?


I thought of this after the discussion about Orwell's books on L's blog. I never read Animal Farm, but I did read 1984 when I was eleven and afterward I gained a fairly irrational fear of rats eating my face off. Not that, if it was about to happen, I wouldn't be justified in being completely terrified, but it's not exactly likely, is it? Given I don't live in a dystopia and I'm not trying to overthrow a totalitarian regime, I feel fairly safe from being abducted off the street and fed to rats. So it was a bit silly.

And actually when I picture it now (and I can picture it more accurately than I could then, unfortunately) I find it still leaves me a little queasy.

Also bees, sort of. I'm not phobic and I can cope with them with no outward signs of distress, but I dislike them a lot more than is justifiable considering all they can do is sting me a bit. But yeah, mainly rats eating my face off. Thanks, George Orwell.

Though I should say I've read others by him (without face eating) that I quite liked. Down and Out in Paris and London and Keep the Aspidistra Flying are two of my favourite books.

lord innuendo

Danger - You've got to write the next chapter of Greg the Florist. If Greg inherits a large manor house then I wouldn't complain.

L - Just remember, this is your fault.

When John came into work, he found the door locked, and the shop dark. He knocked anyway, and it was only a few seconds before Greg pulled it open in a jangle of bells and pulled him inside. His face was very serious.

"John. I have to tell you something."

"Are you firing me?"

"What? No!"

"Have you got a boyfriend?"

"I... Well, I hope I've got you. But. This is a little... Something's happened."

John tried not to let himself speculate further. "All right. Tell me."

how i got arrested in egypt, twice

Once was a case of mistaken identity. Someone who looked like me (by which I mean: was English, not a giant, and had sort of indeterminately coloured hair) had started a fight with a man who was selling chickens. I presume over the price, but that was never entirely clear. Anyway, he hurt the chicken seller pretty badly, got laid into by a couple of the chicken seller's friends, and then ran off.

Meanwhile, nearby, a friend of mine had lost her dog (chihuahua, named Biscuit). I was running after Biscuit. Biscuit was so small as to be pretty much invisible to the naked eye. The police saw a man fitting their suspect's description running away.

They shouted, and when I realised it was me they wanted, of course I stopped. I'd lost sight of Biscuit in the crowd by then anyway. Things were complicated by the fact that their suspect spoke Arabic and I didn't. They thought I was being difficult. I was completely confused.

They took me in, and I was there for about eight hours, even after the chicken seller came to have a look and said I was not the man in question.

Everything worked out in the end. They found the man who did it. Biscuit found her way home. I was released, albeit with some resentful looks for not being who they thought I was.

The second time I don't remember very well. I was pretty ill. I suspect the food at the hotel where I was staying. I'd gone out to get bottled water and something I could stomach, but it was all too bright, too loud, I was dizzy, there was vomiting. Not pretty. I was taken in for being (they thought) drunk and disgusting in public.

It was probably for the best. They realised their mistake pretty quickly and gave me water and crackers rather than throwing me out on the street, which was kind. By that evening I was all right to get back to the hotel on my own, and a few days later I was fine. 

everywhere

DW asked in the comments of L's post if I'd managed to hurt myself carrying him off to bed and I'm writing it down here so I can remember for the next time I have a similar brilliant idea. Answer: yes. Not badly, but yes. Shoulder: certainly better than this time last year, but (key point) not as good as it was ten years ago. Or even two. Good job, self.

Liz wanted to know: How about places you would like to go on holiday? Either to show the boys different areas of interest or just because you've always wanted to go!


Oh...everywhere? Italy, obviously, to meet L's family and see Venice and Florence and Rome and...well, everything. I think the boys would really like Japan, and then there's New York City of course, with its blog readers and cupcakes and so on.

I'd really like to see Pripyat (the town near Chernobyl) though obviously I wouldn't want to take the boys along for that. No matter how much Sherlock would probably enjoy it. I have no idea whether L would be interested or not.

Camping in Yellowstone Park would be amazing, and there's some massive national park in Alaska too (even though it's apparently full of bears and mosquitos) that I've seen pictures of and it looks so...wild. I know that's the point, but it's still impressive.

Let's see... Anywhere in France that isn't Paris. I'd go to Paris too, but I've been once already and I think the taxi drivers try to run you down on purpose.

I'd like the boys to see Egypt and the pyramids and all that and hopefully I could avoid being arrested again. Let's see... The Great Wall. Australia (all of it). The Amazon, mainly for Sherlock, since he's the only one of us excited about the concept of spiders bigger than your head instead of terrified sensibly cautious.

...Maybe you would've been better off asking where I don't want to go? This isn't a remotely realistic list, of course, but it's nice to think about.

montreal, two minutes

X wanted to know what I was doing in Canada. Fair enough.

It was for a medical conference, trauma medicine. They wanted me to come and talk about my experience in MERT (medical emergency response team; I looked for a wikipedia article, but there doesn't seem to be one), which I did. I suspect they picked me because I'd gone to school with one of the people organising it. I think she lives in Toronto now, but she was in Montreal then, and took me round to see the sights and insisted I try the bagels. And attempted to insist I try poutine. I...preferred the bagels.

I was only there for three days and was mainly dying of jet lag the entire time, but it was a beautiful city. I'd like to go back some day.

Someone asked if Sherlock managed to keep quiet for the two minutes of silence today. Mrs T says they all did, mostly. She explained it to them half an hour before hand and then again just before. Two minutes is a long time when you're that age.

Sherlock asked me about it after school, what the point of it was and how silence helped anyone. How remembering helped anyone if they were dead. Why there was a silence for people who died in war and not for people who died any other way. Didn't have an answer to that, really. Not one that both felt true to me and would withstand his cross-examination.

 I looked up the proclamation by George V so he could read it and found this as well:

The first stroke of eleven produced a magical effect. The tram cars glided into stillness, motors ceased to cough and fume, and stopped dead, and the mighty-limbed dray horses hunched back upon their loads and stopped also, seeming to do it of their own volition. Someone took off his hat, and with a nervous hesitancy the rest of the men bowed their heads also. Here and there an old soldier could be detected slipping unconsciously into the posture of 'attention'. An elderly woman, not far away, wiped her eyes, and the man beside her looked white and stern. Everyone stood very still ... The hush deepened. It had spread over the whole city and become so pronounced as to impress one with a sense of audibility. It was a silence which was almost pain ... And the spirit of memory brooded over it all. (Manchester Guardian, 12 November 1919)

que sera sera

Innie wanted to know: What do you think the boys will be when they grow up (other than good men)?


I have no idea. Honestly. I think their main problem will be trying to decide and stick with something. My mum used to tell Harry and me we could be anything we wanted to if we put our minds to it, but that's the sort of thing mothers say; it wasn't really true. If your ambition's to be a world class surgeon or an astronaut or something, it's going to take more than most people have in them. Just a fact.

But Sherlock and Mycroft... I do honestly believe they could do anything they set their minds to. Mycroft has talked about working for the government. I'm not sure if he means politics or something like what his mum does. Sherlock has a new idea every day. I just hope they're happy in whatever they pick.

open

Nameless wanted to know: What impact do you think that blogging so openly about your life has had on you?

Blogging about what we do and where we go and so on...oddly, I don't think it's had much effect at all. Occasionally someone will mention the blog, and I think it's getting slightly wider play now than it used to, but I think L probably gets more fallout from it than I do. 

Apart from that, I'm not really sure how open I've been, to be honest. I mean, I do try, and I think I'm better than I used to be, but on the whole, this expressing one's emotions business...I'm not at all good at it. And I try a lot harder with L in person than I do on here. 

Even so, I think it's been good for me. It's certainly been easier than I expected, in a lot of ways. You hear a lot about the way people behave online and I thought I'd get a lot more criticism from people than I have. Instead, nearly every person who's commented here has been more kind and understanding than I had any reason to expect. Thank you. It makes things easier, a bit, especially this month when some of these entries have felt like slowly pulling out my own intestines. (No one should feel guilty about that, by the way. It's my own choice to do them.)

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that  I think it's good practice for being more open with L and the boys, and I really need the practice. It wasn't something I thought of as at all important up to now. Which, looking back on my life, explains a lot. 

coffee

First off, X drew the goat eating my trousers and kindly gave me permission to post it here:

It's pretty brilliant and I'm relieved it features the goat more prominently than my trousers. Thank you, X.

Mazarin wanted to know about my first date with L. I'm not quite sure what to count as the first one, but I suppose it's got to be the first where we got together, on our own, without the boys, specifically to drink coffee in an awkward fashion.

Just finding that much time took a while. Sherlock wasn't at school yet, and I hadn't found more than one of Mycroft's tutors. I had to get Mrs Hudson to watch them, and then I had to explain repeatedly to Sherlock why he couldn't come along and what the difference was between a date and just two people drinking coffee together.

It was a Sunday, I think, and we met at a place near NSY. The woman who took our order gave me a very dark look indeed. At the time I wondered if she thought I was going to steal the cutlery. She's warmed up somewhat since though, so maybe she was just worried I wasn't good enough for L.

We drank coffee. We talked about the boys and their mum, and the investigation that she'd basically made disappear into the ether. It was a little... I dunno. Slow, I suppose. Vaguely awkward pauses. Lots of smiling and not quite knowing what to say. I assume L was restraining himself from making dirty jokes, which must've been quite limiting, and I was trying not to... Well, put him off in any way.

I was a miserable bastard and I couldn't imagine why he'd want anything to do with me, and I was a miserable bastard with two young kids to take care of - not generally what most people are looking for. So I was probably trying too hard. Maybe we both were.

We were only there for about an hour, and I left feeling I should've done something differently, but he rang me up the next day to ask if I wanted to do it again. Of course I said yes. 

kids today

Roger Federer won the Basel tournament yesterday. He played Kei Nishikori in the final. Nishikori did really well, despite the score, never gave up even at the end. He's going to be a good player. Basel is Federer's home tournament. He used to be a ball boy there, and he buys the ball kids pizza after the final every year. That's the trophy in the bottom left, looking smaller than it is. For a relatively small tournament, it's a truly ridiculous size. 

A number of people have asked for war stories, so... 

letters home

Innie wanted to know: What made you decide to become a doctor and a soldier? How did you make that pairing work?


By the time I was 12 I was pretty sure I was going to be a doctor, because...well, just because. I don't think I ever thought seriously about doing anything else. Other than being an underwear model, obviously.

I also wanted to get far away from home, and I wanted adventure, and not to spend my life looking at ingrown toenails, which was our GP's gloomy prediction for my future when I mentioned what I wanted to be when I grew up.

The Army wasn't the first thing I thought of - I thought maybe a charity organisation of some sort - but I think it was always where I was going to end up.


My grandfather was in the RAMC, in World War II. He was killed in France when my father was quite young, but he wrote him letters the whole time he was in Europe. My father started reading them to me when I was...maybe two or three? So young that I can't remember a time when I hadn't heard them. I've probably still got most of them memorised just from hearing them so often.

Even so, when I started talking about the Army, both my parents thought it was a phase and I'd give it up when I learned more about it. They had a point, in a way. I obviously didn't have a clear grasp at 12 of what I'd be getting into. Grandfather didn't exactly sugar coat his stories, but even so.

But the more I learned, the more sure I was that it was the right thing for me. And it was. There was never a time when I had to question if what I was doing really mattered, and that's the best I could ask from any job.

fast track

Not a requested topic, but you're going to hear about my first bike riding lesson anyway. We went to Hendon, where Lestrade got his police training, and he convinced them to let us borrow their training track for a bit.

He went round a few times first, to take advantage of the lack of a speed limit show me how it was done. No wheelies, though. Mycroft's Housemaster clearly made an impression.

Then there was the lecture portion of the outing, with each point repeated several times and a Very Serious Expression. I'm relatively sure he was more worried about me than the bike. Probably.

And then I got to have a go.

It was brilliant. I want to go back. And then I want my own.

Maybe next time L will make fewer anxious and horrified faces. I wasn't going that fast. 

no one expects...

Desert Wanderer wanted to know: What about something you were unexpectedly good or bad at?

The first thing that comes to mind is shooting. Or, well, marksmanship, I suppose. Precisely hitting what I aim at over a long distance, at any rate, as opposed to most shooting in actual combat, which tends to be less about precision and more about suppression. 

I hadn't thought much about that aspect of being in the Army before I went to Sandhurst. I knew I was going to be in the Army, of course, and I was in the RAMC medical cadetship programme, but medical school didn't leave a lot of room for thinking about anything but medical school, and my F1 and F2 years even less so. I suppose I thought I'd be perfectly adequate at it, but I didn't expect it to be... Fun is the wrong word. Satisfying, maybe. 

It's a difficult physical skill, and, while the Army teaches you a lot of difficult physical skills, most of them don't require that much mental focus. I'd say it's more like surgery, but it's not really like that either. It's its own thing. 

And, of course, it's a skill I've very seldom had to use off the target range. That probably makes a big difference in my attitude toward it .

Walk

Not today's official post, just a picture of my mum's walk. Found it last night when I should have been sleeping.

autumn

Small Hobbit wanted something about autumn...

When I was fifteen or sixteen, there was this massive storm a few days before Bonfire Night - high winds, rain pounding at the windows, loads of damage. Entire trees went down. We heard one go with a crack you could heard over the thunder.

We went to Bonfire Night on Hampstead Heath, and they had all the debris from the storm piled up and fenced off, and... I feel this must've grown in my mind to be bigger than it really was, but I'll tell it like I remember it. The piles were higher than houses, so long they faded off into the dark on either side.

They were already burning when we got there. It was a chilly night, and most people had set up near the fire for warmth to wait for the fireworks. Mum and Dad and Harry did too. Harry and I wandered off pretty quickly after that, in opposite directions.

leveled

Thanks to everyone who left me blog topic suggestions so I'm not left flailing around for something to write about this month. Please feel free to leave more here, or on the previous post with the rest of them.

L's question, to start with...


So, what's the thing you've made that you're most proud of, Danger?


I think this caught me because I can't recall actually making much in my life, beyond, recently, dinner and brownies. There were a few group projects in the Army that I was involved in, but that was everyone making whatever it was, not just me.

day one

All right, first off, I never actually said I'd blog every day for November; I said maybe. Maybe! Don't believe everything Lestrade tells you. And don't google it either. Anyhow. With no commitment at all to doing the rest of the month, I suppose I could start by telling you about Sunday and the pond.

We started, as L said, with a big muddy hole, which everyone under ten, including the dogs, used as an excuse to get absolutely filthy. Several people over the age of ten got just as filthy inadvertently. The slope down is steeper than it looks and surprisingly slippery when wet. Sherlock painted his face with stripes of mud, and then he painted the dogs.

The liner went pretty well once the dogs were convinced to get out from under it. Phobos does that with the sheets sometimes when I'm making the bed. Deimos usually has more dignity but not, apparently, when covered in mud.