underground sofa

I ordered the sofa today/yesterday...after much debate from all sides. I think Sherlock would've preferred it to have sequins, and Mycroft would've preferred one solid colour including cushions. L and I mainly wanted it to be comfortable and not show too much dirt. Or dog hair. Brown was definitely the way to go there, I think.

This is the sofa:

And this is the colour scheme, because I could not for the life of me work out how to make their website display the sofa in those colours:

Also, have some pictures of the early days of the London underground. I like 8 and 10 the best, I think. The complaints poster is wonderful.

Underground Sofa would be a good band name.

And I'm awake again. As you may have noticed. Think I will wake L up this time and try not to be such an idiot. Good night. 

revenge of the eighties

This is the exact face I made when I saw the shirt he's wearing in this picture.

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.

pond digging

A surprising number of people showed up to ogle Lestrade help us dig this morning. Six mothers, four fathers, one confused Swedish au pair, plus L and I, Sherlock and Mycroft, and an assortment of everyone's children, who ranged in age from Barely Walking to Old Enough to Use a Shovel. The dogs of war came too, and I think they must have some herding dog in their dubious lineage; they're not much at digging where we want them to dig, but they're pretty good at keeping the little ones out of trouble.

I'm pleased to report that no one turned up in high heels or a suit and tie. I did have my doubts. No one except L and the Landscaper had much idea what we were doing, but fortunately digging is not a complicated or mentally strenuous activity (my sergeant in basic training would've said, "If it was, we'd get real soldiers to do it!" - he said this about nearly everything we did), and L supervised the construction of the raised beds.

guiltless

Lestrade sent me this last night. Kind of sums up our entire relationship. I mean that in a good way.

lovecraftian

Here's a photo of the wallpaper, as promised. Doesn't it look as if it might come off the wall and move around at night? Or possibly release hallucinogenic gas and make you think you're being attacked by ducks until you light your hair on fire or jump out a window. If there were a Most Sinister Home Design award, this flat would win hands down. I still sort of love it. Maybe that means the gas is starting to take effect. 

We had a lovely time last night in the end. Lestrade somehow made an entire edible meal out of what was in the fridge (!!!) with all major food groups adequately represented. I believe the technical term for the dish is Pasta with Stuff In. I'm so glad the boys aren't picky eaters. When I was Sherlock's age I wouldn't eat anything green. Not even green sweets. The entire color was anathema to me until I was at least ten. I don't know how I survived.