After dinner, however, is highly relevant.
Monday, January 10, 2011
no photos please, part 3
9pm: Dinner. Irrelevant, but excellent. It was salmon with some kind of dill sauce, crispy roasted potatoes, and mustard greens. I was suspicious of the mustard greens (I've not totally overcome the childhood aversion to green things), but they were really nice, tangy and peppery and excellent the with the sauce. (Mycroft wouldn't touch the sauce. Apparently he draws the line at "slimy white stuff." I was rather relieved, as I always am when he acts his age.)
Sunday, January 9, 2011
no photos please, part 2
I mangled the bagpipes.
I marched through most of the castle.
I did it in a kilt.
I did it sans pants.
I marched through most of the castle.
I did it in a kilt.
I did it sans pants.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
no photos please
Well. I did it. This post is mostly going to be me justifying it. The next one might be more of the same. I think it's going to take quite a lot of justifying.
9am: She's buttering me up with scones. They were waiting outside my door when I woke up, along with a paper, tea, honey from her own hives, and raspberry jam from her garden. The china's old and must be custom made. It's got what I swear is the actual castle we're staying in, along with tiny peasants working the fields, and outsized brown deer. It's paper thin. Even Sherlock's careful with it.
9am: She's buttering me up with scones. They were waiting outside my door when I woke up, along with a paper, tea, honey from her own hives, and raspberry jam from her garden. The china's old and must be custom made. It's got what I swear is the actual castle we're staying in, along with tiny peasants working the fields, and outsized brown deer. It's paper thin. Even Sherlock's careful with it.
Friday, January 7, 2011
kilt update, or, oh my god it's full of stars
Apparently I look like Deb's father. Sorry to say, having seen a photo, that this is actually true. She's not just mad. Or, she's not mad in this specific instance. Her father went off to boarding school and never came back to Scotland and therefore her grandfather's spirit is unable to rest. (Hint: this is the the mad bit.)
My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to stroll round the castle in a kilt with a set of bagpipes and make the extremely late Lord Dinmere believe his son's come home. I see several flaws in this plan, not the least of which is that she still insists I've got to do it sans pants. And shouldn't the kilt be her family's tartan? More practical objection: I can't play the bagpipes.
None of this is getting through to her, and Sherlock thinks it's a brilliant idea. Mycroft is scoffing at the idea of ghosts, but I caught him googling orbs just now.
(Note to self: if the Late Lord Dinmere [hereafter LLD] is actually haunting the place, why wasn't it on the website? You'd think they could charge more with a genuine ghost. She seems sincere, but is this merely an excuse to rob me of my pants? If so, may need to recommend professional help; that is not the action of a sane person.)
On a less drafty note, we hauled Mycroft's telescope down to the loch and/or lake last night just before sunset, along with a couple of blankets, a folding chair, a flask of hot cocoa, and some biscuits. (In some respects, my love for Deb is unshaken, at least when it comes to biscuits.)
The water was so still it was like seeing two skies, one above and one below. No clouds. Only a tiny sliver of a moon, like a silver thread (or a gray hair) stuck on black fabric. Except the sky's not really black, is it? Even at night. It's this sort of black-blue-purple. It's black like a bird's wing. And those ancient Greek blokes were right, the stars do look like holes in the sky with light from beyond shining through them.
Sherlock fell asleep around ten, despite the cocoa, and I drifted off for a bit myself. Mycroft was still glued to the eyepiece at 11pm when I said we had to go in to bed. I think this phase may last a while.
My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to stroll round the castle in a kilt with a set of bagpipes and make the extremely late Lord Dinmere believe his son's come home. I see several flaws in this plan, not the least of which is that she still insists I've got to do it sans pants. And shouldn't the kilt be her family's tartan? More practical objection: I can't play the bagpipes.
None of this is getting through to her, and Sherlock thinks it's a brilliant idea. Mycroft is scoffing at the idea of ghosts, but I caught him googling orbs just now.
(Note to self: if the Late Lord Dinmere [hereafter LLD] is actually haunting the place, why wasn't it on the website? You'd think they could charge more with a genuine ghost. She seems sincere, but is this merely an excuse to rob me of my pants? If so, may need to recommend professional help; that is not the action of a sane person.)
On a less drafty note, we hauled Mycroft's telescope down to the loch and/or lake last night just before sunset, along with a couple of blankets, a folding chair, a flask of hot cocoa, and some biscuits. (In some respects, my love for Deb is unshaken, at least when it comes to biscuits.)
The water was so still it was like seeing two skies, one above and one below. No clouds. Only a tiny sliver of a moon, like a silver thread (or a gray hair) stuck on black fabric. Except the sky's not really black, is it? Even at night. It's this sort of black-blue-purple. It's black like a bird's wing. And those ancient Greek blokes were right, the stars do look like holes in the sky with light from beyond shining through them.
Sherlock fell asleep around ten, despite the cocoa, and I drifted off for a bit myself. Mycroft was still glued to the eyepiece at 11pm when I said we had to go in to bed. I think this phase may last a while.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
i feel a draft
The B&B is a castle. I don't know why this surprised me, given Baskerville Hall. We've got two rooms, one with a king bed and one with two singles. For the moment, Sherlock and Mycroft are in the two singles room, or, as it says on the door, The Eminently Green Room. My own is The Providentially Blue Room. Don't ask, I just don't know.
The place is run by Lady Deborah St John Dinmere, aka Deb. Deb is in her sixties, with long gray hair in a plait that reaches to her waist. She wears purple clogs and a lot of tweed, cooks breakfast for all her guests every morning, and then leads shooting parties and brings back venison for dinner. I might be a bit in love.
Note from slightly later in the day: The woman has stolen all my pants. Am considerably less in love, and also pantless. Have been provided with a kilt, which, if I were going to wear (I'm not), I would certainly not even consider wearing WITHOUT PANTS. I am at this moment wearing trousers without pants for the first time in my life and let me tell you, I cannot sodding recommend it.
The kilt isn't even proper tartan. It's leather. She's not even Scottish! At least, she doesn't sound it. What is this? She wants to know if I play the bagpipes, and there's something about appeasing a ghost. How is this my life.
More later. We're going down to the lake, or possibly loch, to look for a suitable place to set up Mycroft's telescope later. He's set on the castle tower, but I want to talk to Deb first. Looks a bit tippy to me. Then again, I don't actually want to talk to Deb at all in case she assaults me with haggis.
The place is run by Lady Deborah St John Dinmere, aka Deb. Deb is in her sixties, with long gray hair in a plait that reaches to her waist. She wears purple clogs and a lot of tweed, cooks breakfast for all her guests every morning, and then leads shooting parties and brings back venison for dinner. I might be a bit in love.
Note from slightly later in the day: The woman has stolen all my pants. Am considerably less in love, and also pantless. Have been provided with a kilt, which, if I were going to wear (I'm not), I would certainly not even consider wearing WITHOUT PANTS. I am at this moment wearing trousers without pants for the first time in my life and let me tell you, I cannot sodding recommend it.
The kilt isn't even proper tartan. It's leather. She's not even Scottish! At least, she doesn't sound it. What is this? She wants to know if I play the bagpipes, and there's something about appeasing a ghost. How is this my life.
More later. We're going down to the lake, or possibly loch, to look for a suitable place to set up Mycroft's telescope later. He's set on the castle tower, but I want to talk to Deb first. Looks a bit tippy to me. Then again, I don't actually want to talk to Deb at all in case she assaults me with haggis.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
riding out on a rail
I'm writing this on the train, where we have been for approximately eighteen years. It's clearly a magical time-suspending train because Mycroft and Sherlock are still the same age as when we got on, and acting it as well for once.
"Sherlock, will you sit still?"
"Can't make me."
"You've been fidgeting for an hour! Read a book. And stop making that horrible face."
"Your face is horrible."
"You're insufferable."
"I know you are, but what am I?"
"John, you can't send him to that school any longer. His mind has atrophied. He'll have a two digit IQ before the term is over."
And on, and on. And on. Thank god we've left Phobos and Deimos behind. They'd take up half the compartment all on their own. Is it bad to let Sherlock swing from the luggage rack, do you think?
"Sherlock, will you sit still?"
"Can't make me."
"You've been fidgeting for an hour! Read a book. And stop making that horrible face."
"Your face is horrible."
"You're insufferable."
"I know you are, but what am I?"
"John, you can't send him to that school any longer. His mind has atrophied. He'll have a two digit IQ before the term is over."
And on, and on. And on. Thank god we've left Phobos and Deimos behind. They'd take up half the compartment all on their own. Is it bad to let Sherlock swing from the luggage rack, do you think?
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
we're just going out; we may be some time
We're going to Scotland, in fact. I got an email with an itinerary and B&B info from herself before I even asked about Mycroft's sky-watching expedition. Mycroft's happy and packing up his telescope. Sherlock's happy because he doesn't have to go back to school yet. (Sometimes I do wonder about making him go to school. He loves learning, and I worry a bit that school's going to knock that love out of him. I know they're slowing him down. But he's got to learn to actually speak to children his own age at some point, yes?) Mrs Hudson has declined. I think she'll be happy to be on her own for a while. Lestrade has work, obviously. [Ask him anyway.] (Relationship advice now, Mycroft? Really?) [He calms you and Sherlock down.] (...I'm just going to move on.)
The end times are upon us:
My grandmother would've loved this. She'd say it'd be rains of toads next and "all those bastards would get what's coming to them." Very keen on bastards getting what was coming to them, my Gran. I think by "bastards" she generally meant the Inland Revenue. And occasionally the U.S. government. Oh, and very often the local butcher. She said he frenched his ribs wrong. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but it sounds pretty bad.
The town we're heading to isn't far from her old house. Maybe we'll drive by and have a look. Got to pack now and wake up Sherlock. He's sleeping with my copy of Gray's Anatomy. That boy needs a teddy bear. Do they make a Teddy Ruxpin that reads medical texts and perhaps astrophysics?
The end times are upon us:
Thousands of dead fish washed up last week on a 20 mile stretch along the Arkansas River between Ozark and Clarksville. On New Year's Eve thousands of red-winged blackbirds tumbled from the sky in Beebe, Arkansas. [source]
My grandmother would've loved this. She'd say it'd be rains of toads next and "all those bastards would get what's coming to them." Very keen on bastards getting what was coming to them, my Gran. I think by "bastards" she generally meant the Inland Revenue. And occasionally the U.S. government. Oh, and very often the local butcher. She said he frenched his ribs wrong. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but it sounds pretty bad.
The town we're heading to isn't far from her old house. Maybe we'll drive by and have a look. Got to pack now and wake up Sherlock. He's sleeping with my copy of Gray's Anatomy. That boy needs a teddy bear. Do they make a Teddy Ruxpin that reads medical texts and perhaps astrophysics?
Monday, January 3, 2011
out of the closet
No, not the Big Gay Closet, as Harry will insist on calling it. Lestrade got me in the comments of the last post. Yeah, I did used to smoke, in medical school. Try going to medical school and not smoking, see how far you get. Got time to eat? No. Time to sleep? God, no. But there's always time for a fag.
I picked it up again in Afghanistan for a bit, mainly for the same reason. Also, of course, cancer seems a bit farther away when you're getting shot at on a daily basis, no matter what logic and common sense tell you. I suppose the same goes for getting shouted at by doctors and nurses while you're trying to learn to intubate someone for the first time or find a particularly deep vein. Medical school: not unlike war in many respects.
I never really got addicted though. (If you listen carefully, you can now hear the sound of Harry and Lestrade restraining themselves from punching me in the nose.) I dropped the habit easily enough the first time, and of course the second time I was too high on morphine to begin to notice any withdrawal symptoms. It's just not my thing, I think. And I do appreciate the effort certain members of my readership make not to taste like an ashtray when I kiss them.
I picked it up again in Afghanistan for a bit, mainly for the same reason. Also, of course, cancer seems a bit farther away when you're getting shot at on a daily basis, no matter what logic and common sense tell you. I suppose the same goes for getting shouted at by doctors and nurses while you're trying to learn to intubate someone for the first time or find a particularly deep vein. Medical school: not unlike war in many respects.
I never really got addicted though. (If you listen carefully, you can now hear the sound of Harry and Lestrade restraining themselves from punching me in the nose.) I dropped the habit easily enough the first time, and of course the second time I was too high on morphine to begin to notice any withdrawal symptoms. It's just not my thing, I think. And I do appreciate the effort certain members of my readership make not to taste like an ashtray when I kiss them.
the party
I never did get back to the computer yesterday. The smoke was more of an aquamarine this time, and it smelled of gardenias. Rather nice, really.
Anyhow, the party: we were all there but for Harry, watching the ham cook, by 6pm. Harry got there about an hour later with, get this, a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice. Lestrade was impressed as well.
"I'm trying to quit smoking and all, but I don't torture myself with candy cigarettes," he said.
Harry made a face I remember quite well from childhood as meaning mum hadn't let her do something stupid like eat an entire bottle of olives or ride her bike all the way to her friend's house across town. I guess she has to be her own mum now. That's got to be hard. [Harder than it is for you?] (...Mycroft. You can't ask me these things in person?) [This is easier.]
...All right. Yes, harder than it is for me. I wasn't a jumping off bridges, eating entire bottles of anything sort of child. I don't drink myself slowly into an early grave, or suck on cancer sticks, or shoot up, or gamble, or drive irresponsibly. I sign up for a year's tour of one of the world's hottest vacation hotspots, complete with sand in my eyes, blood up to my elbows, and a whole variety of chaps who want to kill me. What I mean is that the sort of things I do are not the sort mum ever could've kept me from.
Anyhow, the party: it was pretty excellent, actually. Good food, movies, fireworks on the telly at midnight. Oh, and Their Mum sent us a little video of the fireworks where she is. Red Square, in the snow (note to self: check this isn't compromising national security or something before you post it) <As if I'd allow you to post it if it were.> (...Right. Is anyone not reading my blog before I post it? Is there actually any point in hitting that Publish Post button?) ANYWAY.
I can't figure out how to upload her movie, but it looked a lot like this.
The boys were asleep by midnight, so there was only Harry to make faces when Lestrade snogged me. Due to poor timing and circumstances beyond my control, I've never actually been seeing someone at midnight on the new year before. It was quite nice.
Anyhow, the party: we were all there but for Harry, watching the ham cook, by 6pm. Harry got there about an hour later with, get this, a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice. Lestrade was impressed as well.
"I'm trying to quit smoking and all, but I don't torture myself with candy cigarettes," he said.
Harry made a face I remember quite well from childhood as meaning mum hadn't let her do something stupid like eat an entire bottle of olives or ride her bike all the way to her friend's house across town. I guess she has to be her own mum now. That's got to be hard. [Harder than it is for you?] (...Mycroft. You can't ask me these things in person?) [This is easier.]
...All right. Yes, harder than it is for me. I wasn't a jumping off bridges, eating entire bottles of anything sort of child. I don't drink myself slowly into an early grave, or suck on cancer sticks, or shoot up, or gamble, or drive irresponsibly. I sign up for a year's tour of one of the world's hottest vacation hotspots, complete with sand in my eyes, blood up to my elbows, and a whole variety of chaps who want to kill me. What I mean is that the sort of things I do are not the sort mum ever could've kept me from.
Anyhow, the party: it was pretty excellent, actually. Good food, movies, fireworks on the telly at midnight. Oh, and Their Mum sent us a little video of the fireworks where she is. Red Square, in the snow (note to self: check this isn't compromising national security or something before you post it) <As if I'd allow you to post it if it were.> (...Right. Is anyone not reading my blog before I post it? Is there actually any point in hitting that Publish Post button?) ANYWAY.
I can't figure out how to upload her movie, but it looked a lot like this.
The boys were asleep by midnight, so there was only Harry to make faces when Lestrade snogged me. Due to poor timing and circumstances beyond my control, I've never actually been seeing someone at midnight on the new year before. It was quite nice.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
test
This is a test post from my Christmas phone. Theyre not kidding when they call it a smart phone. May be smarter than I am.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5
Saturday, January 1, 2011
dateline
Yesterday, Sainsbury's around 5pm
You were probably there. I know that because the majority of London was there too. How many million people do they claim to shove into Times Square every year? That's how many were at that Sainsbury's yesterday.
We did something like that wedge formation the Romans used to break their enemies' ranks in battle. Lestrade first (he has something of an aura of policeman about him that makes people take notice) with Mrs Hudson just behind and me in the back holding both the boys by the hand. Mycroft wasn't pleased, I know, and 12 is a bit old for that, but I kept losing him when I wasn't actively holding onto him.
Whole stretches of the shelves were empty like London was expecting the apocalypse instead of a holiday that does, let's face it, come around every single year. The only left in any quantity was tinned soup. There was a tower of tomato with a little girl on top of it, apparently reenacting the fall of Saigon with her mum as helicopter.
It was a precision operation on our part. We got the veg, stock, and root beer (it was for the ham??) that we needed and got the hell out. Mycroft walked with Mrs Hudson (and dignity befitting his age) on the way back. (He helped carry the shopping too. I'd get in trouble for calling him sweet, so I won't.)
Lestrade let Sherlock ride on his shoulders. I got the impression it was a first for Sherlock. He wanted to hold my hand the first few minutes, and normally he's so fearless as to give me nightmares.
More about the actual party later. I've got to go. Sherlock's a made a smoke bomb again, and I don't think he meant to this time.
You were probably there. I know that because the majority of London was there too. How many million people do they claim to shove into Times Square every year? That's how many were at that Sainsbury's yesterday.
We did something like that wedge formation the Romans used to break their enemies' ranks in battle. Lestrade first (he has something of an aura of policeman about him that makes people take notice) with Mrs Hudson just behind and me in the back holding both the boys by the hand. Mycroft wasn't pleased, I know, and 12 is a bit old for that, but I kept losing him when I wasn't actively holding onto him.
Whole stretches of the shelves were empty like London was expecting the apocalypse instead of a holiday that does, let's face it, come around every single year. The only left in any quantity was tinned soup. There was a tower of tomato with a little girl on top of it, apparently reenacting the fall of Saigon with her mum as helicopter.
It was a precision operation on our part. We got the veg, stock, and root beer (it was for the ham??) that we needed and got the hell out. Mycroft walked with Mrs Hudson (and dignity befitting his age) on the way back. (He helped carry the shopping too. I'd get in trouble for calling him sweet, so I won't.)
Lestrade let Sherlock ride on his shoulders. I got the impression it was a first for Sherlock. He wanted to hold my hand the first few minutes, and normally he's so fearless as to give me nightmares.
More about the actual party later. I've got to go. Sherlock's a made a smoke bomb again, and I don't think he meant to this time.
resolution
In training, I had a sergeant who talked a lot about death. I guess to get us used to the idea, to get us joking about it. "When you die, and some of you will die, die with dignity, with honor, with resolution."
As a result, I can't think about New Year's resolutions, about this great beginning of a new, unknown life, without thinking about death. I think if anyone had asked me, at any point in Afghanistan, if I was ready to die, I would've said yes. Not that I wanted to. Just, I felt I'd done enough with my life, I suppose. And when I got back, that same feeling, stronger. Not "done enough with" so much as "done with".
And now I'm anything but done, so, resolutions:
1. Learn to cook one thing so Mrs Hudson can have a night off once in a while
2. Keep anyone I care for from getting kidnapped
3. Live
Phobos and Deimos are asleep on my feet. One great, slobbering, jowly head per foot, wetting down my brand new Christmas slippers. The boys are all tucked in. Harry's asleep and sober on the sofa. Mrs Hudson's asleep in her own bed downstairs. Lestrade's most likely asleep in mine, which makes me either a very dedicated blogger or a bloody fool. Good night.
As a result, I can't think about New Year's resolutions, about this great beginning of a new, unknown life, without thinking about death. I think if anyone had asked me, at any point in Afghanistan, if I was ready to die, I would've said yes. Not that I wanted to. Just, I felt I'd done enough with my life, I suppose. And when I got back, that same feeling, stronger. Not "done enough with" so much as "done with".
And now I'm anything but done, so, resolutions:
1. Learn to cook one thing so Mrs Hudson can have a night off once in a while
2. Keep anyone I care for from getting kidnapped
3. Live
Phobos and Deimos are asleep on my feet. One great, slobbering, jowly head per foot, wetting down my brand new Christmas slippers. The boys are all tucked in. Harry's asleep and sober on the sofa. Mrs Hudson's asleep in her own bed downstairs. Lestrade's most likely asleep in mine, which makes me either a very dedicated blogger or a bloody fool. Good night.
Friday, December 31, 2010
starting over
This time last year I was still in Afghanistan. We'd made plans, got extra booze in. There were steaks. Around eight that evening, when we were sitting down to eat, we got word to expect incoming wounded. An ambushed convoy. It was bad. I rang in the new year with my hands in some poor lad's intestines. I can't remember his name. It'd be nice, wouldn't it, to say I remember them all? I don't though.
I still have no idea how I ended up here. How their mum found me. I'm grateful she did. Saved my life, I should think.
I meant this post to be about resolutions, but it seems to have got away from me.
Mrs Hudson's back now anyhow, and we're all going to the shops together.
More before midnight if I can manage it. If not, happy New Year to you all.
I still have no idea how I ended up here. How their mum found me. I'm grateful she did. Saved my life, I should think.
I meant this post to be about resolutions, but it seems to have got away from me.
Mrs Hudson's back now anyhow, and we're all going to the shops together.
More before midnight if I can manage it. If not, happy New Year to you all.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
lucky save
Mycroft decided last night would be a good time to try out his telescope. On the roof. Without telling me. Thank god for sibling rivalry.
Sherlock came bounding into my room when I was half asleep with that wild and gleeful look he gets on the rare occasions when Mycroft's done something wrong instead of him.
"John! Mycroft's on the roof! He's gonna fall and die and break his telescope!"
Which of those is worse in Sherlock's mind? I'm honestly not sure.
Another, more immediately relevant question: How does one get onto the roof? Via drainpipe, as it turns out. I would not have expected so much voluntary athleticism from Mycroft, but then it's not that he's incapable. I think he just considers physical activity beneath him. With the proper motivation (a rare cloudless night in London), he's every bit as agile as Sherlock. As for myself, Army training or no, the climb up a rather frosty drainpipe at 1AM is not one I'd wish to repeat.
All the same, I have to say it was worth it. I'm not advocating climbing around slippery rooftops in the dead of winter, but...
Well, it was beautiful. The stars were dimmer than in Afghanistan, of course. You'll never see them brighter than in the desert, and we're lower here too. Farther from the sky. All the same, they're up there. Sometimes I forget.
My leg hurts like buggery [do you really think this is an appropriate simile, given your relationship with DI Lestrade?] (MYCROFT HOLMES. WE ARE HAVING A TALK, YOU AND I. GET DOWN HERE NOW.) {what's buggery?} (Sherlock, do not even start.) {but i want to know!} (ASK YOUR MUM.)
(It's not going to be his mum giving him the birds and bees talk though, is it? It's going to be me. Oh dear god. Maybe letting him at Gray's Anatomy was actually a stroke of genius.)
My leg hurts like fury, let's say. I'm back on the cane for the day at least, but I can't say I wouldn't do it again. I will say that you, Mycroft, are not to do it again. It's too dangerous, and I don't want to be scraping you off the pavement come morning. We'll go somewhere after New Year's. I'll talk to your mum. Meanwhile, no more unsupervised climbing expeditions, please and thank you.
Sherlock came bounding into my room when I was half asleep with that wild and gleeful look he gets on the rare occasions when Mycroft's done something wrong instead of him.
"John! Mycroft's on the roof! He's gonna fall and die and break his telescope!"
Which of those is worse in Sherlock's mind? I'm honestly not sure.
Another, more immediately relevant question: How does one get onto the roof? Via drainpipe, as it turns out. I would not have expected so much voluntary athleticism from Mycroft, but then it's not that he's incapable. I think he just considers physical activity beneath him. With the proper motivation (a rare cloudless night in London), he's every bit as agile as Sherlock. As for myself, Army training or no, the climb up a rather frosty drainpipe at 1AM is not one I'd wish to repeat.
All the same, I have to say it was worth it. I'm not advocating climbing around slippery rooftops in the dead of winter, but...
Well, it was beautiful. The stars were dimmer than in Afghanistan, of course. You'll never see them brighter than in the desert, and we're lower here too. Farther from the sky. All the same, they're up there. Sometimes I forget.
My leg hurts like buggery [do you really think this is an appropriate simile, given your relationship with DI Lestrade?] (MYCROFT HOLMES. WE ARE HAVING A TALK, YOU AND I. GET DOWN HERE NOW.) {what's buggery?} (Sherlock, do not even start.) {but i want to know!} (ASK YOUR MUM.)
(It's not going to be his mum giving him the birds and bees talk though, is it? It's going to be me. Oh dear god. Maybe letting him at Gray's Anatomy was actually a stroke of genius.)
My leg hurts like fury, let's say. I'm back on the cane for the day at least, but I can't say I wouldn't do it again. I will say that you, Mycroft, are not to do it again. It's too dangerous, and I don't want to be scraping you off the pavement come morning. We'll go somewhere after New Year's. I'll talk to your mum. Meanwhile, no more unsupervised climbing expeditions, please and thank you.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
oh, my heart
Dinner tonight included actual vegetables. (Sorry, food is taking up rather a lot of my brain with Mrs Hudson gone. She'll be back tomorrow, and I'll start talking about... Well, I can't promise more interesting things, but certainly different things.) In the mean time, veg:
Spinach, cooked in our one pan, with butter and salt and pepper. I think anything tastes good with enough butter. There may also have been parmesan on top. It's still spinach, all right? It counts. Sherlock said it was good and then started singing "Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts." What are they teaching him at that school?
He also said, after dinner, that he would like a heart to dissect and since I was a doctor, couldn't I get him one from the hospital?
"A human one?"
"Of course a human one. They don't keep pigs at hospitals."
"A pig one would be easier to get hold of."
"Pigs are pigs." Cue withering look.
This is what comes of letting him read Gray's Anatomy.
(Could I get him a heart? Well, probably. Could talk to Mike. Is this a good idea? Perhaps a field trip to the mortuary rather than body parts at our flat? Am I completely loony tunes?)
Spinach, cooked in our one pan, with butter and salt and pepper. I think anything tastes good with enough butter. There may also have been parmesan on top. It's still spinach, all right? It counts. Sherlock said it was good and then started singing "Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts." What are they teaching him at that school?
He also said, after dinner, that he would like a heart to dissect and since I was a doctor, couldn't I get him one from the hospital?
"A human one?"
"Of course a human one. They don't keep pigs at hospitals."
"A pig one would be easier to get hold of."
"Pigs are pigs." Cue withering look.
This is what comes of letting him read Gray's Anatomy.
(Could I get him a heart? Well, probably. Could talk to Mike. Is this a good idea? Perhaps a field trip to the mortuary rather than body parts at our flat? Am I completely loony tunes?)
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
just chemistry
Shopping accomplished, despite the Weather. Mycroft thinks the Dogs of War need coats. We did stop at the petshop to check out the possibilities, but somehow I can't see Phobos and Deimos in pink tartan. Any road, I don't know what they are, but they don't look like delicate hothouse flowers to me, despite Phobos' new habit of trying to get most of himself in my lap while I'm trying to write.
"Get off, you immense slobber fountain."
Phobos: *wounded look*
"...Look, go find your frog and I'll throw it for you, all right?"
John Watson, soft touch for prodigies and mythological animals.
It iced. Which is to say, it rained, and the entire landscape instantly froze the rain into a sort of crystal coating over everything. London under aspic. Beautiful and treacherous. Actually, yeah, a lot like the aspic my grandmother used to do. (Sorry, Gram.)
We got, among other things, self-raising flour. Not that I intended to try the biscuits again, you understand, but once Mycroft read about our failure, he gave us both a look that ought to have petrified a few limbs at least, if not outright turned us to stone from shame.
"It's just chemistry," he said.
If my life were as satisfying as a sit-com, he would've failed utterly as well, and we would've all had a nice bonding moment followed by a pizza, but this is Mycroft we're talking about. Of course his bloody ginger nuts were perfect.
(I'm actually quite stupidly proud of him, despite it being "just chemistry".)
"Get off, you immense slobber fountain."
Phobos: *wounded look*
"...Look, go find your frog and I'll throw it for you, all right?"
John Watson, soft touch for prodigies and mythological animals.
It iced. Which is to say, it rained, and the entire landscape instantly froze the rain into a sort of crystal coating over everything. London under aspic. Beautiful and treacherous. Actually, yeah, a lot like the aspic my grandmother used to do. (Sorry, Gram.)
We got, among other things, self-raising flour. Not that I intended to try the biscuits again, you understand, but once Mycroft read about our failure, he gave us both a look that ought to have petrified a few limbs at least, if not outright turned us to stone from shame.
"It's just chemistry," he said.
If my life were as satisfying as a sit-com, he would've failed utterly as well, and we would've all had a nice bonding moment followed by a pizza, but this is Mycroft we're talking about. Of course his bloody ginger nuts were perfect.
(I'm actually quite stupidly proud of him, despite it being "just chemistry".)
harry, ham
Harry invited herself over for New Year's Eve. I'm...shocked, frankly. Pleased as well, obviously. She'd have a hard time getting even mildly buzzed on what I keep in the flat, and she knows that. She said she might bring Clara as well (!). I told her as long as she didn't bring a bottle.
Sherlock likes her because she says exactly what she wants to, all the time, even when what she's saying isn't really appropriate for little ears. That joke about the nun and the asp--well, she's not the one who had to answer awkward questions for the next two days, is she? That one stumped even Mycroft.
Lestrade's coming as well, and Mrs Hudson will be back by then. She emailed me today to get me to pick up a ham, so I'll bundle the boys up in a few minutes and go and do that. [...go to do that.] (Mycroft, what did I say about editing my blog?) [You always leave the edits in though.] (Split infinitive! Ha!) It'll be a bit of an adventure as we had some Weather last night. Still, the Dogs of War demand their due. I'll let you know how it goes.
Sherlock likes her because she says exactly what she wants to, all the time, even when what she's saying isn't really appropriate for little ears. That joke about the nun and the asp--well, she's not the one who had to answer awkward questions for the next two days, is she? That one stumped even Mycroft.
Lestrade's coming as well, and Mrs Hudson will be back by then. She emailed me today to get me to pick up a ham, so I'll bundle the boys up in a few minutes and go and do that. [...go to do that.] (Mycroft, what did I say about editing my blog?) [You always leave the edits in though.] (Split infinitive! Ha!) It'll be a bit of an adventure as we had some Weather last night. Still, the Dogs of War demand their due. I'll let you know how it goes.
Monday, December 27, 2010
inevitable disaster
Biscuits sound so innocuous, don't they? Not like making cake. Making cake sounds loads more complicated. Or bread. Or even a proper meal with all major food groups appropriately represented.
You may have thought I was joking about the plastic on the frozen pizza. I wasn't. Maybe that was a hint to leave the whole area of cookery well enough alone. But:
Sherlock: JOHN. JOHN. JOHN. BISCUITS.
Me: ...It's five in the morning. Go back to bed.
Sherlock: BISCUITS. I FOUND A RECIPE, JOHN.
Me: Why did anyone think it was a good idea to teach you to read?
All right, I didn't say that last part.
But, several hours later, I was actually awake, and Mycroft was off with his maths tutor, Ms P, and Sherlock and I were on our own, and he had found a recipe...
Sherlock: I don't think flour is the same as self-raising flour.
Me: They're both flour. We haven't got self-raising, and I'm not going to the shops in this.
This: *continues to bucket down*
Me: It says rub the butter in with your fingertips.
Sherlock: I'll do it! No, I can do it myself!
Half the flour: *ends up on the floor*
You can picture him standing on the counter in bare feet and periodic table pyjamas, bent over that mixing bowl like Dr Frankenstein over his creature. Phobos and Deimos joined us. They cleaned up the flour quite handily. By rolling in it. We now have ghost dogs.
Anyhow, here's the recipe. Chocolate Ginger Nuts. Hope you have better luck than we did. In the end, we gave up and ate the chocolate bits. Perhaps Mrs Hudson can advise us when she gets back.
You may have thought I was joking about the plastic on the frozen pizza. I wasn't. Maybe that was a hint to leave the whole area of cookery well enough alone. But:
Sherlock: JOHN. JOHN. JOHN. BISCUITS.
Me: ...It's five in the morning. Go back to bed.
Sherlock: BISCUITS. I FOUND A RECIPE, JOHN.
Me: Why did anyone think it was a good idea to teach you to read?
All right, I didn't say that last part.
But, several hours later, I was actually awake, and Mycroft was off with his maths tutor, Ms P, and Sherlock and I were on our own, and he had found a recipe...
Sherlock: I don't think flour is the same as self-raising flour.
Me: They're both flour. We haven't got self-raising, and I'm not going to the shops in this.
This: *continues to bucket down*
Me: It says rub the butter in with your fingertips.
Sherlock: I'll do it! No, I can do it myself!
Half the flour: *ends up on the floor*
You can picture him standing on the counter in bare feet and periodic table pyjamas, bent over that mixing bowl like Dr Frankenstein over his creature. Phobos and Deimos joined us. They cleaned up the flour quite handily. By rolling in it. We now have ghost dogs.
Anyhow, here's the recipe. Chocolate Ginger Nuts. Hope you have better luck than we did. In the end, we gave up and ate the chocolate bits. Perhaps Mrs Hudson can advise us when she gets back.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
boxing day
("No, Sherlock, it's not called that because we have to clean up all the boxes.")
Lestrade's off to his sister's and Mrs Hudson to hers. A's gone as well. Seems she actually has family. Not sure why that surprises me. She's quite young; it'd be more of a surprise if her parents weren't still alive. Must be a large family, too, judging by the pile of presents the lesser minions helped her down to the taxi with. [...presents with which the lesser minions helped her...] (Mycroft. Stop editing my blog. I mean it. My blog, my grammar.)
I slept on the sofa last night, and the night before. Why, you ask? Because the boys' mum stayed over. Everyone's a bit cautious still, but there were hugs when she left this morning. Pre-clean-up, of course. I should've done it yesterday, but watching Phobos and Deimos bound through the wrapping paper like snow drifts was really too amusing.
They're so well behaved normally. I suppose everyone was on a bit of a Crimbo high. At one point, Mycroft wedged himself and the dogs into the box his (admittedly enormous) telescope came in and refused to come out until he was promised a trip to somewhere with stars. A promise he did not get of course; the government of this flat does not respond to blackmail. And there's only so long two enormous dogs and a 12 year old can stay in a box that size, especially when one of the dogs has gas. (I suspect Phobos. He ate something off the street on Christmas day. I don't know what it was and I don't want to, but it couldn't have sat well with him.)
I understand recipes are traditional on blogs (and pictures of cats, but we haven't got any of those), so here's what I'll be making for dinner tonight.
Frozen Pizza
1. Remove from box
2. Preheat oven to temp listed on box
3. Important! Remove plastic from pizza
4. Insert pizza into oven and cook for time listed on box
5. Remove, slice, and eat your portion in the kitchen before the boys catch sight of it
Dead simple, right? The last step can be a bit tricky, but it gets easier with practice. Happy Christmas, everyone!
Lestrade's off to his sister's and Mrs Hudson to hers. A's gone as well. Seems she actually has family. Not sure why that surprises me. She's quite young; it'd be more of a surprise if her parents weren't still alive. Must be a large family, too, judging by the pile of presents the lesser minions helped her down to the taxi with. [...presents with which the lesser minions helped her...] (Mycroft. Stop editing my blog. I mean it. My blog, my grammar.)
I slept on the sofa last night, and the night before. Why, you ask? Because the boys' mum stayed over. Everyone's a bit cautious still, but there were hugs when she left this morning. Pre-clean-up, of course. I should've done it yesterday, but watching Phobos and Deimos bound through the wrapping paper like snow drifts was really too amusing.
They're so well behaved normally. I suppose everyone was on a bit of a Crimbo high. At one point, Mycroft wedged himself and the dogs into the box his (admittedly enormous) telescope came in and refused to come out until he was promised a trip to somewhere with stars. A promise he did not get of course; the government of this flat does not respond to blackmail. And there's only so long two enormous dogs and a 12 year old can stay in a box that size, especially when one of the dogs has gas. (I suspect Phobos. He ate something off the street on Christmas day. I don't know what it was and I don't want to, but it couldn't have sat well with him.)
I understand recipes are traditional on blogs (and pictures of cats, but we haven't got any of those), so here's what I'll be making for dinner tonight.
Frozen Pizza
1. Remove from box
2. Preheat oven to temp listed on box
3. Important! Remove plastic from pizza
4. Insert pizza into oven and cook for time listed on box
5. Remove, slice, and eat your portion in the kitchen before the boys catch sight of it
Dead simple, right? The last step can be a bit tricky, but it gets easier with practice. Happy Christmas, everyone!
Friday, December 24, 2010
not a creature was stirring
Lestrade was by to give me my present this morning. Guess what it was. Go on, guess. I'll wait.
Friday, December 17, 2010
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.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
pine scented
We were meant to get a Christmas tree today. I had a plan. Drop Mycroft off with Ms P for his maths lesson. Take Sherlock to school. Clean the flat, top to bottom. My mum used to do that for the New Year, and somehow I think this is the last chance I'll get. She used to put out silver to catch the light of last year's moon and the new year's moon too, but I think trying that in London would be like walking around with a Please Mug Me sign taped to my back. Besides which, I haven't got any silver.
Well. Best laid plans and all that.
Sherlock disappeared from school today.
He's fine (I say, ruining the suspense), not kidnapped. No, he decided to run off to Harrods and go Christmas shopping with my bank card.
Just let me repeat that.
He left school, took the tube to Harrods by himself, stopped at a cash point machine some time in there, racked up about £500 of presents, and do you know how he got caught? He didn't have enough left for this one jumper, the last in that size, so he took it with him out of the store to get more cash. Planned to come back and pay for it, of course. And, of course, he got caught. He's very clever, but as I keep reminding people (including myself) he's only five.
The jumper was for me. He didn't get a damned thing for himself.
I made him return the lot and apologize (to me, not Harrods; he did pay for the stuff, after all, and, well, he was asleep on my shoulder when I took it all back). I think he understands why it was wrong, but it's bloody hard to tell with him sometimes.
I can't even say how relieved I was when he called me - from Lestrade's office - to say he was all right.
We did get the tree in the end, but you'll have to hear about that another time. I'm shattered. Oh, and there's a Detective Inspector asleep on my sofa.
Well. Best laid plans and all that.
Sherlock disappeared from school today.
He's fine (I say, ruining the suspense), not kidnapped. No, he decided to run off to Harrods and go Christmas shopping with my bank card.
Just let me repeat that.
He left school, took the tube to Harrods by himself, stopped at a cash point machine some time in there, racked up about £500 of presents, and do you know how he got caught? He didn't have enough left for this one jumper, the last in that size, so he took it with him out of the store to get more cash. Planned to come back and pay for it, of course. And, of course, he got caught. He's very clever, but as I keep reminding people (including myself) he's only five.
The jumper was for me. He didn't get a damned thing for himself.
I made him return the lot and apologize (to me, not Harrods; he did pay for the stuff, after all, and, well, he was asleep on my shoulder when I took it all back). I think he understands why it was wrong, but it's bloody hard to tell with him sometimes.
I can't even say how relieved I was when he called me - from Lestrade's office - to say he was all right.
We did get the tree in the end, but you'll have to hear about that another time. I'm shattered. Oh, and there's a Detective Inspector asleep on my sofa.
Friday, December 3, 2010
wherever you go, there you are
Well, we've made it. I've never had such an organized move. If Mycroft doesn't make it in politics, he'll make a fortune organizing people till they beg for mercy. Holmes for Homes. Let Holmes Move Your Home? He'd come up with something better. And he'd think bigger anyway. Logistics, not house moving. Want to get your expedition from London to the Amazon Basin? Mycroft's your man. Or will be, in about 15 years.
I asked Herself for something not too flash, and I've got what I wanted in spades. You should see the wallpaper. I'll try to get a picture of it later. Right after I get a camera. (Harry, does your mobile do that?)
Sherlock made some sort of smoke bomb that nearly drove the movers off entirely. It was violet and smelled of pears. Overall, I think it could've been a lot worse.
Also, we've got the dogs.
All right. So, the serial killer I mentioned? He had dogs. I'm not completely sure how much of this I'm meant to write about in a public forum, but this was in the news: he had dogs. Two. Big, black, reasonably fearsome. Painted, as I think I mentioned, with glow-in-the-dark paint, and let out at nights to terrorize the countryside. And eat people.
Mycroft wanted them, and his mum got them for him. (Or two dogs that look quite like them? ONE CAN ONLY HOPE.)
Mycroft's named them Phobos and Deimos.
I hope no one's surprised by that. What else would he have named them?
They're currently asleep in the kitchen, taking up most of it.
Well. That's my life.
I asked Herself for something not too flash, and I've got what I wanted in spades. You should see the wallpaper. I'll try to get a picture of it later. Right after I get a camera. (Harry, does your mobile do that?)
Sherlock made some sort of smoke bomb that nearly drove the movers off entirely. It was violet and smelled of pears. Overall, I think it could've been a lot worse.
Also, we've got the dogs.
All right. So, the serial killer I mentioned? He had dogs. I'm not completely sure how much of this I'm meant to write about in a public forum, but this was in the news: he had dogs. Two. Big, black, reasonably fearsome. Painted, as I think I mentioned, with glow-in-the-dark paint, and let out at nights to terrorize the countryside. And eat people.
Mycroft wanted them, and his mum got them for him. (Or two dogs that look quite like them? ONE CAN ONLY HOPE.)
Mycroft's named them Phobos and Deimos.
I hope no one's surprised by that. What else would he have named them?
They're currently asleep in the kitchen, taking up most of it.
Well. That's my life.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
new address
We've got one! I won't be posting it here obviously, and I haven't actually seen it, but I'm reliably informed that it exists. I think their mum is just buying the entire building. I can't imagine what it must be like to have that sort of money.
No, you know what, that's a lie. I can absolutely imagine it. Especially having lived here for a bit, with the mysteriously lit fires and breakfast in my room when I wake up and no cleaning to do ever. I think I'd hate it, really. No offense to Mrs Hudson, and it's lovely she does all this for us, but I keep thinking about the time between getting out of hospital and getting this job.
If I hadn't needed to look after myself, I might've just got in bed and stayed there. I'd like to think I'm not the sort of person who'd do that, but knowing now what it's like to wake up to tea within reach... I just don't know. There's something to be said for having to work for the necessities of life. Then again, if I'd had Mrs Hudson then I think she'd have chased me out of the house with a broom if necessary.
Huh. I think this has suddenly become the longest post I've written on this thing yet. And look, Dr E, that's introspection up there, that is.
No, you know what, that's a lie. I can absolutely imagine it. Especially having lived here for a bit, with the mysteriously lit fires and breakfast in my room when I wake up and no cleaning to do ever. I think I'd hate it, really. No offense to Mrs Hudson, and it's lovely she does all this for us, but I keep thinking about the time between getting out of hospital and getting this job.
If I hadn't needed to look after myself, I might've just got in bed and stayed there. I'd like to think I'm not the sort of person who'd do that, but knowing now what it's like to wake up to tea within reach... I just don't know. There's something to be said for having to work for the necessities of life. Then again, if I'd had Mrs Hudson then I think she'd have chased me out of the house with a broom if necessary.
Huh. I think this has suddenly become the longest post I've written on this thing yet. And look, Dr E, that's introspection up there, that is.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
i don't even know where to start
Life is suddenly moving quite quickly, which is a change after months of not moving at all. I've only got time for the condensed version, so here goes:
Day 1 at Baskerville Hall: spent the entire night searching for a very sneaky five year old who was secretly following me about.
Day 2: Spent most of the day looking for him again, out on the moor. Found him, fell asleep in a cave, got attacked by a gigantic hound covered in glow-in-the-dark paint. (The hound was painted, not us.)
Day 3: Helped DI Lestrade solve a serial killing case and rescue Mycroft from the killer.
I'll try to expand on this at some point in the future. Possibly far in the future.
PS: We're moving back to London. I haven't even unpacked yet.
Day 1 at Baskerville Hall: spent the entire night searching for a very sneaky five year old who was secretly following me about.
Day 2: Spent most of the day looking for him again, out on the moor. Found him, fell asleep in a cave, got attacked by a gigantic hound covered in glow-in-the-dark paint. (The hound was painted, not us.)
Day 3: Helped DI Lestrade solve a serial killing case and rescue Mycroft from the killer.
I'll try to expand on this at some point in the future. Possibly far in the future.
PS: We're moving back to London. I haven't even unpacked yet.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
something happened
I got a job offer today. It went like this:
I was walking. I walk every day because the alternative is to stay home, and I haven't even got a telly. A pay phone rang as I walked by. Odd, but not that odd. Kept walking. A phone in a shop rang as I walked by. Coincidence. Then, another pay phone. I answered it. Why not? What else have I got to do?
It was a woman's voice. She knew my name. Dr E's going to think I've lost my marbles, but she had me watch the surveillance cameras as, one by one, they all looked away. Leaving me in a blind spot. Then the limo pulled up.
Long story short, I'm going to Devon tomorrow to look after her two children.
I was walking. I walk every day because the alternative is to stay home, and I haven't even got a telly. A pay phone rang as I walked by. Odd, but not that odd. Kept walking. A phone in a shop rang as I walked by. Coincidence. Then, another pay phone. I answered it. Why not? What else have I got to do?
It was a woman's voice. She knew my name. Dr E's going to think I've lost my marbles, but she had me watch the surveillance cameras as, one by one, they all looked away. Leaving me in a blind spot. Then the limo pulled up.
Long story short, I'm going to Devon tomorrow to look after her two children.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
skip this one
You'd think in a city the size of London, running into someone I know would be relatively unlikely.
First Mike, now my sister. Perhaps I was asking for it, going to the pub three times in one week. I suppose she hits them all eventually. Maybe she has a rota drawn up.
I may be a bit drunk at the moment as well.
First Mike, now my sister. Perhaps I was asking for it, going to the pub three times in one week. I suppose she hits them all eventually. Maybe she has a rota drawn up.
I may be a bit drunk at the moment as well.
Friday, October 15, 2010
new life
Haven't been "utilizing" this blog "to its fullest extent" apparently. I rather thought the point of therapy was to speak privately with someone you, at least in theory, trust. Granted, writing this is currently the same as talking to myself (and I do, in theory, trust myself).
Dr E: Yes, John. But you don't actually talk to me. Perhaps you'll feel more comfortable with the anonymity granted by the internet.
Except my full name's bang in the URL of this thing, isn't it? Well. And whose fault is that, as my mum would say.
All right. Everyone seems quite desperate to get me to express my feelings, so here we go.
I feel bored, if you want to know.
No, I wouldn't want to go back. I'm no use to anyone like this.
Dr E: Yes, John. But you don't actually talk to me. Perhaps you'll feel more comfortable with the anonymity granted by the internet.
Except my full name's bang in the URL of this thing, isn't it? Well. And whose fault is that, as my mum would say.
All right. Everyone seems quite desperate to get me to express my feelings, so here we go.
I feel bored, if you want to know.
No, I wouldn't want to go back. I'm no use to anyone like this.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Sorry about that last post. If anyone's reading this. Mike told me you can look at the stats and find that out, but I think I prefer ignorance in this. Ignorance and alcohol. But those of us with alcoholic relatives tend to have rules and one of mine is:
1. Thou shalt not drink alone.
So off the pub I go. Maybe there'll be a match on.
Maybe I'll just go to bed.
1. Thou shalt not drink alone.
So off the pub I go. Maybe there'll be a match on.
Maybe I'll just go to bed.
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