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.
Thursday, when I was still writing about Professor Pizza, I took them ice skating again.
Mycroft's new friends were there, as well as their mums. I had the Dogs of War along so there was no skating for me. It was nice to just sit and chat with normal, rational adults for a while (no offense meant, Mrs H, Lestrade). We talked mainly about the best way of unclogging kitchen sink drains, a discussion which had more permutations that I would've dreamed possible.
One of them had just brought up apple cider vinegar as a cure-all when Phobos finished gnawing through his lead and took off onto the ice to find Mycroft. I thrust Deimos' lead at the Apple Cider Vinegar Proponent and skidded on the ice myself with visions of Phobos bowling over toddlers like ninepins.
In fact, he was quite careful and made it to Mycroft without upsetting anyone but the manager, who charged after me, howling and waving his hands. Perhaps predictably, he slipped and landed on his bum, still shouting. Not three seconds later I hit the ice as well, but face-first rather than bum-first. I think the manager's technique was superior to mine.
If not for the Apple Cider Vinegar Proponent we would've been banned from the rink, I suspect. She can shout louder than the manager, and eventually he backed down. Apparently she's a Big Deal there, possibly part owner? Not sure.
The upshot: Mycroft was mildly embarrassed, I was mildly bruised, Sherlock thought the whole thing was brilliant, and the Dogs of War are no longer welcome. Oh, and Phobos needs a new lead. One made of something stronger than nylon. Perhaps titanium.
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.
Thursday, when I was still writing about Professor Pizza, I took them ice skating again.
Mycroft's new friends were there, as well as their mums. I had the Dogs of War along so there was no skating for me. It was nice to just sit and chat with normal, rational adults for a while (no offense meant, Mrs H, Lestrade). We talked mainly about the best way of unclogging kitchen sink drains, a discussion which had more permutations that I would've dreamed possible.
One of them had just brought up apple cider vinegar as a cure-all when Phobos finished gnawing through his lead and took off onto the ice to find Mycroft. I thrust Deimos' lead at the Apple Cider Vinegar Proponent and skidded on the ice myself with visions of Phobos bowling over toddlers like ninepins.
In fact, he was quite careful and made it to Mycroft without upsetting anyone but the manager, who charged after me, howling and waving his hands. Perhaps predictably, he slipped and landed on his bum, still shouting. Not three seconds later I hit the ice as well, but face-first rather than bum-first. I think the manager's technique was superior to mine.
If not for the Apple Cider Vinegar Proponent we would've been banned from the rink, I suspect. She can shout louder than the manager, and eventually he backed down. Apparently she's a Big Deal there, possibly part owner? Not sure.
The upshot: Mycroft was mildly embarrassed, I was mildly bruised, Sherlock thought the whole thing was brilliant, and the Dogs of War are no longer welcome. Oh, and Phobos needs a new lead. One made of something stronger than nylon. Perhaps titanium.
4 comments:
Oh your comment has gone? I completely agree with you about Mycroft though. Still, there was no help for it. I ought to have been watching Phobos more closely.
My family had a dog when my sister and I were born that was the best dog ever. Except for the leash thing. He hated them.
My mother got stopped by animal control while taking him for a walk. "You need to put a leash on him," the man said. In response, my mother held up the end of the leash she had in her hand that she had thought was attatched to a dog. He'd bitten clean through it. Never strayed. Never ran. Just walked calmly next to her as if to say "Silly woman, I want to stay here. You don't need to tie me to you with that."
I suspect the Dogs of War wouldn't be quite that well behaved, though.
Ha! An independent spirit, that dog. Brilliant.
Phobos and Deimos are generally VERY well behaved...for Mycroft. But Phobos does get the occasional wild hair. Just my luck he had to act out at the ice rink, I suppose. (They're still both very young of course too, to be fair.)
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