one year later

The anniversary of Red's death is coming up. We'll be in Italy for it, actually. I'm hoping to steal some time before we go to visit his grave with Murray and Spence. And hopefully L if he doesn't mind. 

I went back and read the entry I wrote after it happened. Honestly, it still doesn't seem real, even after the funeral, even after a year has passed. Sometimes I still expect to get some stupid text or email from him. I miss him. 

He would've hated this poem, which isn't saying much, since he hated most poetry, but it's... I don't know. It seems right today. 

abandoned

Royal Marines out of Afghanistan. I'm pretty happy about that. I know a couple of those guys in 40 Commando and I've patched up more than a couple. Glad to know they're coming home safe.

In totally unrelated news, the comment in my last post from Kate L about abandoned places reminded me I'd come across this:

It's an abandoned hotel in Japan. There are a lot more pictures at the site. Very interesting. He has a link at the top to more places like this that he's documented. 

L and Sherlock are making chocolate and raspberry cupcakes. L has told me I'm not to eat all of them this time, which is really not at all limiting. Five isn't all of them. Ten isn't even all of them. I'm only saying. They smell really good.

Mycroft took Sherlock to the museum today, which is the second outing they've been on alone together without any major property damage, fire, or other catastrophes. I'm very proud - I mean, really, I actually am. They don't always get along perfectly, but I'm so happy they can go out and have a good time together, especially as both of them start growing up.

I almost literally cannot believe they'll be eight and fifteen in few months. Terrifying. 

murray

So, that was Murray. I'd told him about L and the boys and life in general obviously, but not about the blogs because I knew he'd be on here in a flash with every embarrassing story about me he could think of. He was surprisingly restrained though. Not just in that but in general. I suppose it comes of being home and trying to decide what to do next. Because you can't do that sort of thing forever, no matter how...essential it feels. You have to pick when to get out, or the choice gets taken away from you.

We talked a lot, mostly in the middle of the night, so that I feel about as sleep deprived as L does after those night shifts. Yawning my head off. I'm really glad he came to visit, mockery and all.

L and Mycroft have been baking - making cherry and almond cupcakes for Nicky and her family, and banana ones for his mum. It will be a struggle not to eat them before dinner. Or instead of dinner.

For Sherlock (who's been very good today after yesterday's episode of theft, hostage-taking, and coercion into ponds) an old medical illustration with various ways of stitching wounds:

birmingham

Want to help name Pluto's moons? (Who wouldn't want to help name Pluto's moons?)

Anyway, I'm in Birmingham. This is the picture I sent Sherlock and L last night of my hotel room.

Unexciting hotel room

maze

"Almost 30 years ago a Japanese custodian sat in front of a large A1 size sheet of white paper, whipped out a pen and started drawing the beginnings of a diabolically complex maze..."

More about the maze at the link in the caption. I'm resisting the urge to call it amazing. Apparently I'm not resisting it very well though. I hope they decide to do prints of it because Sherlock already wants one. As a stopgap measure, he's drawing his own. I'm pretty sure his has more traps, pools of lava, and buried treasure than the original does. 

I got in touch with a couple of people I know in Birmingham and in theory we'll get together while I'm there. One of them is married to a woman I used to date. Don't know if he plans on bringing her along or how awkward that will prove to be if he does. Hopefully not too bad. She threw a teacup when she broke up with me, but if she'd wanted to hit me with it, she probably would've. 

Sherlock and I are cooking dinner tonight. What did he pick for the vegetable? Broccoli. 

walk down the street, there's no one there

Stealing L's lyrics-as-subject line thing for this. Though since I started writing this last night after L was asleep, and then fell asleep in the middle of it...I can no longer remember why I thought the lyrics were relevant. Anyhow, here's some cheese we got that Sherlock wanted me to take a picture of because it came wrapped in leaves.

I've been thinking about time recently. One of the things I realised while talking to Dr E a few weeks ago is that I do more now than I did in the Army. Which seems impossible. I remember days when I barely got to eat, didn't sit down for more than five minutes, riding so high on adrenaline that I could barely sleep even when I got a chance. But those are the sorts of days that stick in the mind, aren't they? I know perfectly well there were also days when we sat in the on call room and played cards, or read, or drew on the walls (they were unfinished plywood; it was practically an invitation). 

Now, the things that I do are constant. Pack Sherlock's lunch, walk him to school, do the shopping, go for a run (...usually), do the cleaning, the laundry...and then, astonishingly, it's usually time to pick him up again. I don't know how just those few things can take up so much time, and there are days when I feel I must've lost several hours into a rogue, travelling time warp. 

I thought I'd have a conclusion for this when I started writing it, but I don't. Just vague confusion and the continuing sense that I ought to be doing more. Perhaps with more of a sense that it might actually be possible. 

Anyway, go and read this man's blog post instead. He knows how to write a conclusion, and it's a good cause. 

in a disused graveyard

View from the top of the monument. It was tall. There were a lot of stairs. I need to run more. I know I've said that already, but mostly likely doing it would be more beneficial than talking about it. I'll look into that. 

 The church, complete with real live blue sky, in as much as the sky is live:

DW asked me: "Doc, in all the time you had soldiers telling you things, did you ever once believe them when they started with "See, it was like this..."? Because if you did, I have a very nice bridge for sale..."

So, once upon a time, in the freezing remains of an abandoned and possibly haunted mental hospital, a soldier sidled up to me. We'll call him M.

M: See, it was like this [emphasis mine], we were just trying to have a little fun [also a phrase to be treated with deep suspicion], like a water slide, only with ice, and now Jameson's got his arse froze to it, so can you come and unfreeze him? I hear vodka's good for that.

The vodka should've been my tip off. In my defense, the rest of his story, given the people involved, was completely believable. Why he thought I had vodka, that's a mystery for the ages, but when I got back from talking to Jameson (unfrozen), I found M eyeing up a bottle of alcohol like he was wondering how it would taste. He'd also pocketed a number of tongue depressors.

We had a talk. Evidently it did't stick, because two weeks later...

M: See it was like this, Doc. I got bit by a bat and now I think I'm turning into a vampire and I don't have any garlic. Do you have some garlic?

The next week...

M, face covered in god knows what: Doc, I'll be honest, sometimes a man just needs to exfoliate.

I still don't know what it was, but the resulting rash was surprisingly difficult to get rid of.

-

In a Disused Graveyard
Robert Frost

second coming

I had lunch with Spence today - he's one of the friends I saw for the first time in a while at Red's funeral. The one who told L every story about me he could remember in the five minutes I left them alone together. To be fair, it was probably a joint effort, but I'm sure he was the instigator. 

We talked, about a lot of things. People and things we remember. Strange times. He said he didn't really talk to anyone when he got back either, including his wife. I gather they're doing a little better now. 

He came along with me to pick up Sherlock, but ditched me when he saw the tidal wave of children coming toward us...heh. Something about having to do the shopping. Excuses, excuses. I took Sherlock to kung fu. He's learning to do this jump kick where you turn all the way around in mid-air and then inflict grievous bodily harm on the foam pad someone's holding for you. They're encouraged to yell while doing it. Quite an impressive sight.

On the way home, he asked me why I was sad. I told him I'd been thinking about people I miss. "Like I miss Grand-mère?" he said. Yes, like that. "People shouldn't die," he said. "It's not right." Leaving aside the difficulties of overpopulation, sometimes I agree. Sometimes not.

And then, perhaps inevitably, we talked about zombies.

-

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats

into my heart an air that kills

I don't have a post for this day two years ago, but I remember how I spent it. Indoors, staring at the wall, feeling sorry for myself. At the time it seemed like the only choice I had. And yet I knew Red was in London. I could've called him easily enough. I remember thinking it was his leave and he should see his family and I didn't want to bring him down.

So I didn't call him, and a few days later I was in Devon, and soon enough he was back in Afghanistan.  I never saw him again.

When I started this post I meant to write about how I met him. It's a good story and more cheerful than this, but I can't seem to do it. Maybe another day.

Into my heart an air that kills

A. E. Housman

caught in this isthmus of a middle state

Paralympics women's doubles medal ceremony:

Esther Vergeer's record is just amazing. I think she's got over 20 slam titles, and a few years ago she topped 400 straight wins. (I know this is late, but a lot of the tennis I'm just watching now.)

Also, there's this. I think they're fantastic, and I wish I'd had anything like that amount of determination when I got home.

Anyway, life goes on. L's told me a little about his case, which is...not good. Some of the cases he works are fairly ordinary, if murder can ever be said to be ordinary, and some, like this, leave me wondering how things like this can happen, how anyone can do these things.

Sherlock asked me what the point of life was today, which was a more complex question than I was expecting to have to answer while making cheese sandwiches on four hours of sleep. I'm afraid I didn't have a satisfactory answer for him. 

the stars are not wanted

So. Red's funeral. It was...good. If that's possible. I saw a lot of people I hadn't seen for a long time. Some of them not since Afghanistan, some of them longer than that. Years. None of them since I got back, though a lot of them have been home longer than I have.

His mum sang Bonny Portmore. She used to sing professionally, and she still has a lovely voice. She told me afterwards that she used to sing it to him when he was little.

Wore my dress uniform for, I think, the first time since the last funeral I went to. That's probably 90% of the reason I don't like it.

L was wonderful. Held my hand through a lot of it. Stealthily. I think he wasn't sure whether I'd want to tell people about us. I probably should've reassured him beforehand, but I just didn't think about it. I wasn't much use that week generally.

Sorry. I'll do a post about the visit with my parents soon and then I'll stop being so bloody depressing for a while, promise. I know this isn't what you signed up to read. 

nine things

Right...only took me about three hours to do this...

Day Two: Nine things about yourself.

1. Europe, Asia, and Africa. What? I'm sure that's all you wanted to know about it.

2. Somewhere there is BBC documentary footage of me showering at Bastion. I assume they thought the showers would be empty, but I think they could've turned off the camera a little faster. I'm quite grateful it was never used.

3. In medical school, a friend and I once covered every single cadaver with shaving foam.

4. When I see the poppies for Remembrance Day now, all I can think of is the poppy fields in Afghanistan.

5. I thought I'd die over there. I wasn't hoping to, or especially afraid of it. It just seemed likely, if I kept going back, and I knew I'd keep going back.

6. When I was young, four or five, Harry used to lock me in the basement because I was scared of the dark. She went off and forgot about me once, and Mum thought I was in my room. I was down there for about six hours.

7. I climbed about three quarters of Mt Kilimanjaro and then had to go back with another climber who was suffering from altitude sickness - high altitude pulmonary oedema, pretty bad. He was all right in the end though. He gave me the cigar he was going to smoke at the summit. I think I still have it somewhere.

8. There are so many things I don't feel I can tell anyone, because it's not fair to put those images in their heads. Bad enough they're in mine.

9. I saw a UFO once. I mean, literally a flying object that I couldn't identify. Not saying it was aliens. Just that it was odd.

Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.
Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever)
Day Seven: Four turn-offs.
Day Eight: Three turn-ons.
Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

another day

I still have pictures of Kew, so I'll talk about that because I don't know how to talk about Red. It's not the first time I've lost a good friend this way, but it is the first time since I got home. It feels different.

Anyway. Sherlock's enormous goldfish:

sunday

A friend of mine died yesterday. On Saturday, he was out on patrol and he stepped on an IED. He was taken to hospital at Bastion, but his injuries were too severe, and he died Sunday evening.

That would be afternoon here. Probably around the time we were getting ice cream at Kew. That just...seems wrong.

His name was Charlie. Most people called him Red. Not because of his hair, which wasn't, but because of his underwear, which was. Every single pair. He proved it frequently and often in public.

I thought if I started writing I'd be able to think of something to say that actually mattered, but I can't. He was a good man. I'll miss him.

Going to schedule this to post while I'm picking up Sherlock and not look at the comments for a while. Or maybe ever. Sorry. 

a visitation

I finally invited L properly to meet my parents yesterday. So we'll be doing that, at some point. I suppose over the summer, when Mycroft's home. I don't know, one box of china a frankly terse email and it seems like a good idea? Or less of a horrible one? Maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe I just had to wait this long. I suppose a lot's changed in the last year. Inside my head, at least.

And Lestrade...I hope you know it wasn't anything to do with you. I can't even explain properly what it was, but if it had been you, or just that you're a man, any of that, I would've told myself to stop being an arse and dragged you up there immediately, but it was just...me. And I couldn't. Sorry.

It's hideous china, too. It's got a border of strawberries and it's sort of avocado green.

And instead of terrible china and my idiocy, let's close with this photo Mycroft sent me from school. I like it. Very peaceful.

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.

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."

history

I imagine you've read or inferred most of this, but I'm hoping it'll get clearer in my head if I write it out.

I got a call from Mycroft's school a little before two. When I got there, Mycroft's housemaster talked to me for a while before they'd let me see him. I wasn't really listening at that point. They'd already said he 'wasn't badly hurt' which meant he was hurt, and... I might've been a little rude.

He and the other boy involved were in the headmaster's office, sitting as far apart from each other as they could get. Mycroft: black eye, bruised knuckles, cut on his cheek, not deep, probably from something on the ground. The other boy: bloody nose, split lip, likewise bruised knuckles. They were outside, between classes, when it happened. The other boy said something unpleasant about L and I. It escalated. Mycroft hit him.

Mycroft wouldn't tell me what he said. When I pushed it, he told me I didn't need to know. I think he was trying to protect me.

corner gas

That show I linked to yesterday and how I know it exists:

About two years ago, five Canadians and I accidentally spent Thanksgiving (Canadian version) at FOB Delaram. It used to be a Soviet base, and there's a tower they built that we spent a good part of the night in, instead of the beds that had been scrounged up for us. Why? Because someone had vodka, and where else do you drink vodka?

Things that had also been scrounged for my edification: pasta with cheese and gravy (chips were unavailable), small packets of fake maple syrup that got mixed with the vodka after we'd drunk enough to think that was a good idea (it wasn't), and fossilised nanaimo bars from someone's mum.  The pasta was actually not bad. I liked it better than poutine. You may all make horrified faces at me now.

And someone had Corner Gas on a USB drive. I have very hazy memories of watching most of series one that night, passing the USB drive from laptop to laptop as batteries surrendered under the onslaught of  Brent being hilarious, Wanda being frighteningly smart, and Hank being...Hank. It was quite an experience.

The next day they went on their way, and I went on to Bastion, and googled Corner Gas. It was conveniently on youtube, and a good thing too, because I don't think they ever made region 2 DVDs of it. There you go. Happy belated Thanksgiving, Canada. 

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.