from my phone

This is a very brief post to say that L is as amazing as you all suspected. I don't think I've ever been so surprised, despite knowing there was some sort of trip coming, and so touched that he'd go to this much trouble.

Have just herded Sherlock and Mycroft down off the roof again, with some regret. Mycroft was lying down looking at the stars, and Sherlock was playing 'star songs' on his violin. A lovely image, but a bit screechy to the ears with other people trying to sleep.

We're all back in bed now. Goodnight, everyone. 

a day out

Lovely day out on Saturday. Perfect weather, L relaxed, Sherlock at his most curious, turning over every rock and bringing us bugs and odd plant life and throwing rocks and sticks in the water. We are, as L mentioned in his post, getting bikes of the non-motor variety, and I'm hoping I can still ride one. I'm sure the phrase 'like riding a bike' exists for a reason, but it's been about twenty years.

I suspect no matter how old I get, it'll still be odd to think I could've done anything as an adult twenty years ago. Well. Semi-adult. I'm not sure being in medical school actually counts.

In other news, L is enjoying my slow death due to curiosity about this weekend and isn't helping by claiming one of my presents has certain characteristics in common with bagpipes. I'm not sure I want to know.

We're getting Mycroft back on Thursday. I know he was just home for a visit not that long ago, but it seems like ages. I'll try to keep Sherlock from spontaneously combusting with excitement before he gets here, but I'm afraid the cards are stacked against me. 

jumping

The day Lestrade got this new case and had to be out past Sherlock's bedtime was the same day I had my physio. Could've gone badly. Sherlock's become very attached, as you probably couldn't help noticing, to his murder stories, but the stories aren't the real issue. He just likes having L there to tuck him in and say goodnight, not that I think he'll admit it. So it could've gone badly, but instead there was jumping.

Sherlock's not much for pretending, generally. Not for him the 'floor is made of lava' type games. Usually.  Turns out it works better with phrasing like, 'What if the flat was suddenly flooded with superstrong acid?' Although he did point out that it would eventually dissolve the furniture and the floor as well if it were that strong, and then we'd be in trouble, and anyway was there really an acid strong enough to 'melt people'?

There was a lot of jumping from one piece of furniture to another, followed by acid research online and wondering how hydrochloric acid could exist in our stomachs if it's that strong, which then led to him telling me all about carnivorous plants that trap their prey in various ways and digest them with acid. Although not all the way, because we also looked at some pictures of dissected pitcher plants online and they're all full of insect corpses. Fascinating really.

And then he asked about chlorine gas and chemical weapons, which was a less cheerful conversation, but did lead to him claiming he could do more jumping jacks than anyone in the Army. He demonstrated. I think he may possibly be right. By then, it was meant to be his quiet time before bed, so we read his mummy book on the couch for a while.

Never a dull moment. Even on the bad days, I sometimes wonder how I got this lucky. 

this is sherlock

We were going on a school trip to the museum which was already good and fun and we had a little bus and then it broke down and when the man came to pull it away he let me pull the lever that makes the rope get tighter and keeps the bus from falling off!! And then we couldn't get all the way to the museum or really anywhere because Mrs T said she wasn't taking all of us on the tube so then we all had ice cream and waited in a little park while she tried to get someone else to come and get us and then there wasn't enough time for the museum but that's okay because I've seen it before and we can go at the weekend anyway and THEN there still wasn't anyone to come and get us so she called some of the parents to see if they could pick up their kids early and John came and got me from the park so I got to go home early from school and really there was no school ALL DAY and now I'm home and it was the BEST DAY EVER!

previously on the moor

Mycroft and I had tea and an interesting conversation about people willingly giving up their privacy in exchange for the opportunity to vent to strangers all over the internet. At the time, I didn't think that applied to me at all...

Right, let's see...Baskerville Hall, excellent tea, bruised shins, what happened next? Oh yes. Sherlock came back just before dinner, I sent him upstairs to clean himself up, and he never came back. I had dinner with Mycroft, and then spent the entire bloody night looking for him, with no success. 

That house is massive, and I never did manage to search the whole place. If I'd had any sense I would've just waited in the kitchen with Mrs Hudson. As it turned out, he'd been in to get a sandwich from her and then took off out to the moor again. She gave me breakfast and also the paper, in which I read that something was killing people out there. 

I followed Sherlock, obviously. Slowly. Found him near one of the big tors. I think he may have kicked me again, can't quite remember. It started pouring, we shared his sandwich, and then we fell asleep in an alcove in the rock. 

It was dark when we woke up. Went outside. Sherlock said he saw something and took off. I saw it too. Didn't know what it was, just that it was glowing and growling and looked like something that had been on its way straight to Hell and took a slight detour to terrorise Dartmoor. I think I caught up to Sherlock and grabbed him just about the same time Anthea showed up out of nowhere and took a shot at the thing. It ran off. 

After that, it was a long and thankfully unexciting walk back to the house. Sherlock fell asleep. I didn't know it at the time, but I'd left my cane at the tor, which I would come to regret in the morning. That night I was just grateful to be in a bed and was certain the next day would go far more smoothly. [insert the hollow laughter of hindsight here]

badgers

Because I thought it should be collected somewhere... 

Badger Tales

by Desert Wanderer, A from NW, and ReReader
(Lightly edited to make the bits go together more smoothly.)

*

Once upon a time, in a garden far, far away (like, in Ipswich or something) lived two badgers, named George and Jack. They met each other over the scene of a honey pot theft that left another badger badly bitten. Of course, being our heroes, the badgers recovered the honey pot and gave the thief a good what-for.

During the scuffle, George had broken a claw and was very put upon. "Alas and woe betide me," he cried. "How ever am I to get yummy grubs and mealworms to eat without my claw?!"

Jack smirked at his funny language, but still felt bad for him. "Alas and woebetide?! Have no fear! I can fix a claw, for, before I became a crime-fighting badger, I was the greatest pawicurist in the whole county."

not just make up, 80s make up

Thank you, Nicky!

The banal details of our shopping trip clearly can't compare to this, so I'll just mention that Mycroft got a shirt with a pattern on (still very tasteful, but I think every single one he owns is solid colour but this), and Lestrade talked me into jeans that are probably too young for me and failed to talk me into ones with some sparkly thing on the bum. 

road worthy

Just going for the test now. Wish me luck.

the play's the thing

Sherlock's class has written and is currently acting/reading a play. I don't know if they mean to do it as a performance or not (I hope so). Apparently Mrs T said they had to base it on an existing play to give it some structure and gave them the general plot of Hamlet.

To give you some idea of how closely they've stuck to the original, Sherlock is playing Ophelia, but instead of drowning himself, he dives into the river and swims up to attack the pirate ship to avenge the death of his father. I think he also rides a moose at some point. I'm afraid the moose may have to go if they actually attempt to perform it.

Also, it's no longer set in Denmark, but in London, leading to the immortal line: Something is rotten in the Thames, you can tell because it stinks really badly right here, I think it's dead fish. The Thames is also the river Sherlophelia dives into. He thinks he should be able to do it for real. His secondary suggestion was that they put it on near the Serpentine and he could dive into that instead.

(L - Sally says you're feeling poorly. Anything I can do to help? Sorry I fell asleep all over you last night; you were very comfortable.)

Oh, and re: the spider discussion going on in the comments, my policy is that if they're in the house, they've got to go, usually via a shoe bottom or rolled up newspaper, so you're all much nicer people than I am. 

stick insects

Sherlock's going to love this.


Lord Howe Island Stick Insect hatching from Zoos Victoria on Vimeo.

There's an amazing article about them too.

On Lord Howe, there used to be an insect, famous for being big. It's a stick insect, a critter that masquerades as a piece of wood, and the Lord Howe Island version was so large — as big as a human hand — that the Europeans labeled it a "tree lobster" because of its size and hard, lobsterlike exoskeleton.

I wouldn't want to find one in my slipper, but I hope they get a second chance. 

Went for a nice ride with L this afternoon while Sherlock was squeezing all possible information of a visiting biologist about the pond. L even rode on the back for a while, with no apparent heart attacks. I imagine he'll still be glad when I get my own though. 

poetry for insomnia

A sleepy degu that Sherlock put in my lap earlier. I think it's Argon, but I'm not sure; I had them both at one point. 

Despite the title, I was asleep for a while, and I think I will be again. You get more poetry anyway though. This is from memory because I can't find it on google, which means it's probably a bit wrong (and the punctuation is all wrong). I imagine someone with more skill than I have can find the correct version.

I am a shepherd of those sheep that climb a wall by night
One by one, until I sleep, or the black pain goes white.
Because of which I cannot see a flock upon a hill
But doubts come tittering up to me that should by day be still,
And childish griefs I have outgrown into my eyes are thrust,
Till my dull tears go dropping down like lead into the dust.

Edna St Vincent Millay again.

Sounds actually rather depressing when I write it down, but it tends to cheer me up on bad nights. Which this is not one of, oddly. L and I had a good talk earlier, and...well, that's enough, really. He gives me hope. 

song about nothing, song about sheep

I had things to post about, but I can't remember any of them right now. Irritating.

L's been asleep most of the night, thankfully, though I think I hear him moving about now. Sherlock was up briefly, but I put him back to bed and stayed with him for a while. Nightmares all round tonight, apparently. Part of it was Mycroft going back to school with things so unsettled here I think. Neither of them were happy about it.

His nightmare was about a vampire in the living room. Coffin on the floor by the sofa. He said it was just lying in there with its eyes closed looking dead. And he made sure I knew he wasn't even frightened of vampires because they're not real.

Mine, predictably, was about Afghanistan. At what point exactly do I get to go back to having nightmares about...oh, giant potatoes crushing me, or clams, or boots with teeth? You know, normal things. 

paint

I really wonder about the people who make up paint names. There's one we looked at called Dark Linen that's quite a light sort of spring green colour, which I think you'll agree is neither dark nor linen-coloured. Our wall now looks like a patchwork quilt of browns and blues and lots of colours that are really beige but called Rum Caramel or Twisted Bamboo or Desert Dawn.

There is paint on Sherlock's nose and a bit at the ends of his hair, and a Sherlock-sized handprint on the back of Mycroft's shirt. One of the dogs also has a Striking Cyan tip on his tail. He's going to be harder to clean than Sherlock, or at least harder to keep still.

Mycroft's learning Morse code and trying to teach the dogs to tap out words with their tails for treats. I'm not convinced the dogs have that much control over their tails.

That's all, I suppose. Decent enough day, considering. 

all's well that ends well

L's back to work, and Mary's entertaining the boys, and I'll try to explain things a bit without bringing down the wrath of Mrs H.

I used to know the man who was behind the abduction of Mary's mum. A long time ago. He was in the Army then. I gather he was thrown out on his ear not long after, and I'm not surprised. There was a lot of rumours. Him talking to the wrong people and information getting where it shouldn't, things going missing. Nothing was ever proved, although apparently it was later on.

I can only assume that's why Mrs H wanted me involved, although if she already knew who he was... I don't know. Maybe she just wanted confirmation. You can run yourself to death trying to follow her trains of thought.

Most of the packages Mary was getting were a sort of trail of breadcrumbs from her mum that I won't go into the details of because I don't know how on Earth she managed it, but a little while ago there was something else, from him. A sort of threat-slash-bribe. Mrs Morstan was not giving him what he wanted, and he thought he could get it from Mary instead.

I recognised his... Not signature. This odd little sign he used to doodle all the time. Either as a result of that, or independently, I have no idea, Mrs H and her people found and retrieved Mrs Morstan. I went to give Mary the good news...and he broke into her flat while we were having tea and tried to... I don't really know what his goal was, actually.

Fortunately, he came on his own. We had a bit of a scuffle, I knocked him out, and you've read the aftermath. Mrs H tells us Mrs Morstan should be home tomorrow. 

so

L, call me when you see this. Or call Mary. Don't worry, it's not that bad. 

fine

Busy day. Got Sherlock to school, got me to work. I was the only doctor there this morning so it was a bit busy. Lots of sniffles, coughs, fevers, etc (not that kind of etc). The flowers L sent are out on the receptionist's desk now, because as nice as they smell, it's a little overwhelming in an enclosed space, and the room I see patients in is quite a small enclosed space. She says my 'young man' must be very sweet, and I told her she was right.

After work, first physical therapy appointment. Yes, it hurt. I'm fine. It's just pain; it's not as if there's anything actually wrong. If I was quiet, it's because the alternative was being snippy, and I don't want to do that. I know you're all just worried.

Picked Sherlock up. He looked at me like was going to explode for a few minutes and then declared that I was fine and not bleeding or anything so why was L so worried? Ha. 

the flowers that ate london

I got some flowers at work today. I forgot to take a picture before I left, but here is one I've stolen from the internet to give you an idea of the general scale...

Bloody enormous, in other words. Pink and red, mainly roses. They smell lovely. L denies sending them, but the poem that came with them gave him away. He can share it with you if he wants to. I'll just say...I can't believe he dictated that over the phone to a stranger. Good lord. I wonder if florists get a lot of that sort of thing on Valentine's Day. 

And then I checked I checked his blog on the way to pick up Sherlock and found his post... Well. I can't think of a better gift than that.

hollandaise

He wasn't joking about the breakfast in bed. I woke up to tea and eggs benedict, all made from scratch.

Me: You can make hollandaise sauce?
L: Where did you think it came from?
Me: A jar at the supermarket?

Although honestly, I'm not sure I've ever seen it at the supermarket, and I know I've never had it at home. It was excellent, of course, much better than when I've had it in restaurants, and presented on a tray with a rose and everything. I was very impressed. (That sounds flippant when I read it over, but I really was. Am still. Not used to that sort of thing.)

This is the mill:

We've been out walking most of the afternoon. It's chilly and quiet and peaceful. The only thing you hear is the water and the wind. 

mummies and policemen

The museum yesterday was interesting, lots of information on the mummies' placards. Sherlock got a book in the gift shop called Conversations with Mummies, which was written by the woman who used to be the head of the museum's Egyptology department. Mrs T is going to get more than she asked for, but she's used to that by now. 

This is the unwrapping of the 'Two Brothers'; they were Sherlock's favourites. I liked the coffin made for a cat.   

Got back in time to hear L's talk, or parts of it at least. Three hours is a very long time for Sherlock to sit still and listen to anything, even if it's about murders, so there were a few breaks.

Today was a little boring for Sherlock I'm afraid, as I had to pick up some things, but he hauled his new book around with him and read parts of it aloud to me (and policemen at the hotel and strangers in shops).

We met Darren for dinner, and I hope he doesn't regret agreeing to it. Sherlock had an enormous number of questions for him, half of which were about police work, and half of which were more about establishing Sherlock's territory (i.e. Lestrade and I). Darren was very, very patient, and Sherlock did warm up to him after a bit.

Tomorrow, we're going flying. 

snow forever

It did not snow forever, despite Sherlock's hopes. His plan was that Mycroft would have to stay home tomorrow because he couldn't get back to Harrow, L wouldn't be able to get in to work, and we would build a massive snow fort in the middle of the road.

Mycroft is, sadly, back at school now, along with Anthea and the hounds, but we all had a nice day at the park, with snow balls, peculiar snow sculptures, snow angels, and a particular DI who clearly wanted me to tackle him into the snow or he wouldn't have stuffed a handful of icy slush down my shirt while he was kissing me. There wasn't really enough for an entire snowman, but Sherlock did attempt a snow pancreas. It wasn't bad, considering the limitations of his medium. He fed it to the dogs when he was done.

Mycroft and I watched bits of the England vs Scotland match yesterday. England won, first time at Murrayfield in years, so I'm pleased, my father is probably cranky about it, and my grandfather would be livid. Mycroft, I think, doesn't quite see the point of team sports, and Sherlock said it was more interesting when L and I were playing, which I took as a compliment until I remembered how keen he was to see a broken bone up close.

Back to normal tomorrow for everyone. 

spare parts

Photos of soldiers, taken before, during, and after Afghanistan. I don't really know what to say. I didn't know you could see the difference.

Let's see...still cold. Still no snow. We have Mycroft and Anthea and two large, excited dogs home. Sherlock is besieging his brother with Quite Interesting facts, such as that the Earth apparently has two moons and that there's a jellyfish with 200 foot long tentacles. On the haircut front, he alternately wants a mohawk, a shaved head, or no haircut at all, so no real progress there, although I think he's getting a bit frustrated struggling to keep his hat on.

Mycroft says school is going fairly well 'for school', which I suppose is the best you can ask from school. He also says that it sometimes seems calculated to let you learn as little as possible and that people would be better off just reading. Glad it wasn't just me, then. I remember times when I had so much homework to do there was no time left to try to understand any of it.

They're both interested in L's latest case. Less so now that all the bits have been found, although Sherlock would very much like to help Molly put them all together. Never in my life did I think I'd write a sentence even remotely similar to that.

A short story from the day Sherlock lost his tooth: we were walking back from school and he was showing it to...basically everyone. One of them was an older woman, about of an age to be his grandmother and clearly accustomed to children showing her odd things, because when he did...

S: Look, it just came out today!
Her: That's lovely, dear. Now put it back where you found it.

in victorian novel terms

Remembering of course that I can't tell you eighty...no, now make it ninety percent of what's going on... The map we found, and the directions Mary's been getting seem to be related. I'm starting to have an idea of why Mrs Holmes picked me for this, and it hasn't got a lot to do with my investigative skills.

In other news, we might have snow this weekend, or, to put it as Sherlock has, several times: 'IT'S GOING TO SNOW AND SNOW FOREVER AND WE CAN SLED TO SCHOOL EXCEPT I WON'T HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL BECAUSE THERE WILL BE SO MUCH SNOWWWWWWWWWWWW.'

He lost his tooth at last, put it in the designated tooth fairy box under his pillow, and went to sleep, barely. He's scornful of the entire concept of course, but still happy to have both the chance of catching me making the switch and the money. Happily, he slept through it.

We've got Mycroft coming home this weekend, and if it doesn't 'snow and snow forever', L suggested we go to an indoor ski place, where they make their own. I am hoping for real snow (see blog background), but that sounds like fun as well. And maybe better than ice skating, in that snow is softer when you fall down on it.

a story for you

I don't know what made me think of this today, but it's more cheerful than the other one that came to mind, so here you are...

A friend of mine in medical school (and you'll see shortly that I really do mean a friend and not me; this wouldn't have worked nearly so well me, for reasons which will become clear) had a trick she liked to do on public buses.

She would wear a heavy coat and a false moustache, 'borrow' a penis from one of the cadavers, and attach it to the outside of her trousers. She had short hair and the coat covered her chest, and, well , not many people were studying her face.

Someone would go to complain to the driver, and she'd tuck moustache and member in her coat pocket, unbutton the coat, and don an expression of confused innocence.

She did almost get caught once when someone took a photo and brought the police into it...but when he got it developed, it turned out merely to be a close up of the offence, as it were. She now has a very serious job doing genetic research, and I bet she's glad Youtube didn't exist back then.


Also, piercing poll results...

ears	52 (61%)
nose	8 (9%)
lip	2 (2%)
nipple(s)	11 (12%)
other	12 (14%)

So the 12 of you who picked 'other', what are you getting pierced?

the last two

Is that a small amount of eyeliner? I think it might be... He looks barely old enough to shave here. 

The shirt is positively subdued for the eighties... 

Well. Yesterday...I don't know what to say, apart from it was a nice day out, which is safe enough. My Victorian novel metaphors are not holding up, and the whole thing is proving more complicated than I expected. Just as well L was with me, or I might've been in trouble. Apparently the police find it suspicious when you walk up and down a row of houses for half an hour trying to see in the windows. I'm sure I don't know why... 

lord of the manor

"Welcome, Sirs. We have been expecting you," he said, tone low and steady.

Greg felt John give him a gentle push in the back...

*

The castle had a butler, a housekeeper, a cook, and maids in varying degrees. John was not grasping the subtleties of their ranks. There were also several gardeners lined up and looking as deeply uncomfortable as John felt. 

John shook the head gardener's hand and, desperate for something to say, asked, "What, no gamekeeper?" 

"He's down in London having surgery," the man said. "Gamekeeper's thumb. Serious condition. Comes of killing rabbits." 

The butler gave the gardener a sharp look for that, and John didn't dare inquire further after the gamekeeper's rabbit-dispatching technique. 

Eventually, he and Greg were led upstairs and shown to separate rooms, which was about what John had expected. A few seconds after the door closed, though, he heard a knock on the wall, and a section of panelling slid away. Greg stood on the other side. He looked faintly pale. 

"I thought I could just sell it!" he said. "But I'd have to fire all of them! I can't do that." 

"Maybe you can find a buyer who'll keep them on." 

"All of them?"

It did sound unlikely. 

"Let's go and have a look at the gardens. And then you can ring for tea. M'lord." 

Greg rolled his eyes. "Git." 

"Do you get a title with this pile?" 

"Yeah. Lord I Can't Bloody Afford This, of West Money Pit." 

"You could have weddings here," John said, as they stepped out into the gardens. It was fairly bleak, but it should be beautiful in summer. "You could do the flowers for them." 

Greg looked slightly more cheerful at that. They walked down an arched tunnel of thorned climbing roses and out into the light of the main gardens. 

cambridge

We had, as L said, a lovely ride to Cambridge. I had the key to Mary's mum's flat, which was basically in the same condition she'd left it in when she went to France three months ago. It certainly didn't look like she had any particular plans to be away long, although I suppose if she hadn't planned to come back at all, there would've been no reason to empty the fridge.

I did wonder at first if someone had searched the placed in the way you see it done in films, everything tossed about everywhere, but Mary did warn me it would be messy. We did find an old map that very likely has nothing to do with anything, and then we found a chip shop and ate lunch. Sherlock's been pouring over the map today in between glaring at us and eating cake.

The motorcycle lesson went well. I rode something gold and Italian this time, and I think L is going to have some sort of seizure if I don't start remembering the exact make and model so I can tell him later. He listed about forty different ones it could've been and I gave him a blank look, and he said how could I remember what all the bones in the hand are called and not the company that made one bike. I told him my brain's already full of bones and so on, but I don't think he bought it.

I got this from Mycroft today, 'for the internet', he said. Here you go, internet:

now that he's safely asleep

Isn't he sweet? And smiling for once. 

john watson, p.i.?

After I dropped Sherlock at school this morning, I went to talk to the young woman Mrs H told me about.

Obviously, there's a lot about it that I can't say, and I've been trying to think how to talk about it. This is going to be about 80% true in substance and about 80% made up in the details. It'll sound a bit like a Victorian novel, but I think it'll work.

Mary's in her early twenties, just out of university, with some sort of computer science degree. She told me about it. I won't pretend I understood. She'd probably get on well with Mycroft.

Three months ago, her mum disappeared. She'd been on a business trip to Paris. She left her hotel one morning and never came back. Mary didn't realise anything was wrong until the police called her. All her mother's things were still in the room. The police found the cafe where she'd had breakfast that morning. After that, nothing.

A week later, Mary got a pearl in the post. Small box, brown paper wrapping. She showed it to me, not that I could make anything of it. I imagine it's been checked for fingerprints and so on. Mrs H certainly doesn't need me for that. Two weeks after that, there was another pearl, and another two weeks after that, and so on.

The most recent one came with directions - turn right, go a quarter mile, take the third left - not those actual directions, but things like that. Which might've been helpful if you knew where to start from. Mary and I started from her flat, but the directions had us turning right and walking 20 paces through a brick wall...not that helpful.

That's about as far as we got today. She thinks her mum is alive and responsible somehow for the pearls and the directions, suspects the directions may be code of some sort, and resents the French police and Mrs H for not taking it all more seriously. I can't blame her, but Mrs H doesn't do anything by accident, so there must be some reason she sent me. Just need to figure out what it is. 

eye of the tiger

Please note the tiger striped seat covers...

So. The meeting with Mrs Holmes yesterday. I didn't really know what to expect. I never do with her, and these little visits are always exciting. It was only the second time I've been to her office. It's quite small, extremely wood paneled (all the walls and the ceiling), and has an espresso maker that L would be wildly jealous over. It looks brand new though, and it did last time I was there too. I don't think she spends a lot of time there.

We had coffee, talked about the boys, made certain plans which will be a pleasant surprise for them and for L, I hope. And then she asked me to go and talk to...some people about some things.

This is where it gets tricky. I can't give out details in a public blog, and frankly I barely have any details to give out if I wanted to. There's a possibly accidental death involved, and a young woman who's been sent a number of...well, I can't say what, so let's call them pearls, over the past few years.

I don't know why she'd want me to look into it. I'm sure she has more qualified people. And I'm a bit worried L may die of worry. But it does sound awfully interesting. 

he knows how to make an entrance

First motorcycle lesson tomorrow. L claims to be nervous, but give the appointment he has later in the day, he has much better reasons to be nervous than me wobbling around on a bike for a few hours. The one he claims is his 'eye check up'. The only similarity is that he's also got two of what he's actually going to get seen to.

Speaking of appointments (but not the sort L has tomorrow), I have one with Mrs Holmes on Friday. I don't know what about. Should be interesting, at least. They always are. 

seeing blue

Once upon a time, on an unnamed base in an unnamed country, which may or may not have contained a great deal of desert terrain, dust storms, and devious goats, there were six officers.

These officers were not what one might call well liked. These were officers who had been known to regularly get their undergarments back from the laundry with a faint pinkish tinge. Not one, but four of these officers found a small goat in their offices at various points during that goat's stay with us. It was installed on their desks with a bowl of tinned fruit and nowhere, so to speak, to...go.

I should say, at this point, that while I might possibly have had some knowledge of the goat's location, what follows was nothing to do with me.

One night, there was a comedy thing that a lot of people went along to. The next day, I was stopped in the hall by Officer A (not even his real initial). He said, and this is a direct quote:

'Doc, you have to help me. I'm pissing blue asparagus.'

I started at him for probably too long while trying to switch those words around until they made sense. In my head, it went something like this: there is no asparagus here, fresh or tinned. Asparagus urine smell. Does his smell for some other reason? Has he somehow found and consumed actual dyed blue asparagus? Some other (blue?) veg he thought was asparagus? Is the asparagus a red (blue?) herring? Does he just mean he's pissing blue? 


He was just pissing blue. And he had thoughtfully brought me a sample. Which was really and truly unnecessary because I knew what it was. He insisted I take it anyway.  I thanked him and departed. (Note please that it was in no way in my job description to receive anyone's blue urine. There were a number of other people he should've given that sample to. I don't know why he chose me; that's just my life.)

Through the course of the day, I was stopped by two more of those officers (the other three had the sense to present their blue urine to the appropriate people). More direct quotes:

'Is it normal to pee blue?' (A: 'No. No, it isn't.')
'I think I might be dying.' (A: 'Why, is your urine blue?' Cue panicked face from Officer C.)

The thing is...while the methylene blue part was relatively easy to figure out (it was pretty well known at medical school and considered incredibly passe as a prank)... I did open that sample. And it genuinely smelled like post-asparagus urine. I have no idea how they accomplished that.

In closing, I just googled asparagus pee, and found this eminently reasonable request:

It's said that in a venerable British men's club there is a sign reading "DURING THE ASPARAGUS SEASON MEMBERS ARE REQUESTED NOT TO RELIEVE THEMSELVES IN THE HATSTAND."