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.

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.

head on

I never thought I was over the nightmares. Just thought I might be able to depend on my subconscious to save the screaming ones for home. Where I have...walls and things. And there aren't other campers quite nearby to wake up and require an explanation of who's just been bloodily murdered.

No, no, nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen. Just me and my permanently buggered psyche.

Everyone was very kind, of course. My three in particular. Sherlock made sure I had Spider, and Mycroft offered me one of his dogs, and Lestrade was...Lestrade. Solid and reassuring and doing his best to look be calm, which I imagine was fairly difficult, given how he'd been woken up.

I ought to be back in the tent with him now. I will be soon. Just needed some air. And apparently to unload on the internet re: current utter self loathing. But it's actually really chilly and I'm not wearing shoes, so. Off I go. 

no comment

I have nothing to say about 1980s Canadian pop singers. We are moving on.

I talked to Lestrade's sister, Nichola, last night, and she was kind enough to send me this: