a collective noun of degus

It seems like forever since I posted last. I suppose five days is forever in internet terms...and that wasn't even me posting. Christmas was perfect, but busy. And logistically difficult, what with having to get the degus and their cage and all and then smuggle them into Mrs Hudson's flat and then keep Sherlock out of there until Christmas morning.

He's in and out of there two or three times a day normally, so it wasn't easy, but worth it in the end. His eyes got so wide, and he actually couldn't make a sound for almost a minute, just jumped up and down with glee.

This is Argon. Mercury hasn't held still long enough to be photographed yet.

my wings

Hi this is Sherlock, and these are my wings and also me playing at the school show with people watching. We don't really have spotlights but I drew them anyway and also the wings are smudgy because I was trying to use my white oil pencil to make them whiter but it didn't really work on white paper and I don't have not white paper. And the sequins aren't blue but I don't have silver and grey was stupid. Really they are white and silver.

tasteful

Lest you have nightmares about our flat and its smothering waves of tinsel, here's something tasteful L did with birds and branches and lights on top of a something or other in the kitchen (I'm not up on the names of freestanding kitchen furniture):

I had a dream last night about a lift that went every which way, further confused by all the rooms it was trying to get to also moving every which way, tipping surfaces, and lethal lift doors. I wouldn't exactly call it a nightmare, but all the rooms involved were decorated with tinsel... Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Sherlock said it sounded like fun when I told him about it. 

lights

Not ours. Much more impressive than ours, and brighter, no matter what L tries to tell you. Some sort of amazing installation at Harrods Selfridges:

And 'the biggest spiderweb ever' if you ask Sherlock:

It's barely possible they intended it to be a star, given that spiders aren't generally considered festive this time of year. Sherlock would like you to know that 'they probably almost definitely had LOTS of spiders in that stable.' I'm sure he's right.

I think L has pictures to show you of a few choice ornaments we bought, too. We had a lovely time, despite the crowds. Maybe partially because of the crowds. Wouldn't be Christmas without them, right?

And for next year...maybe this place. 

shiny and pine scented

The subject line describes our flat. The tree is up and draped with popcorn, lights, paper chains, ornaments, and more tinsel than should be legal. Mycroft and L flinch a tiny bit when they walk into the room, but it's their own fault for having taste.

Every tree on the lot was examined, and Sherlock actually wanted to go to another lot and see if they had a better one. No. It's a very nice tree, with regularly formed branches in approved tree-like fashion, and a good V at the top to wedge the comet into.

L has come up with the most impressive Christmas menu I've ever seen written down, let alone eaten, and seems not at all intimidated by producing that much food for 12 people.

Sherlock's wings are hanging over his bed so he could keep an eye on them while he went to sleep. Mycroft is upstairs with a book and two large dogs. The tree is all lit up, and L is making me tea. I don't see how anything could be better than it is right now. 

hello

This is Mycroft. A lot of you said welcome home, so thank you for that, and also for your support when I had that bit of trouble at school. We had to write essays as punishment, and I don't remember all of mine, but this is the beginning.

I've been told that hitting Mark was the wrong thing to do. In this case, most people seem to mean 'against the rules' rather than morally wrong. It was against the rules, which is convenient. There's no need to sort out morality, or decide who to punish, or whose penalty should be heavier. We both broke the rules. We both sit in detention and write essays. 


The other thing I've heard often in the past twenty-four hours is that 'violence is wrong'. In this case, I think people do mean morally wrong, rather than just against the rules. People repeat this without appearing to give it much thought; they treat it as a universal truth, as if no one could possibly disagree. 


People do disagree. Our government disagrees, or we wouldn't currently have soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq. We wouldn't have armed forces at all, because if violence is really wrong, always, in every case, then it's wrong to use it to defend yourself, too. 


I don't know if it's wrong or not. I think the issue is more complicated than that, and I wish people would stop pretending it's simple. 


I think that what I did was wrong, not because it was violent, but because I did it without thinking of the consequences. I don't mean the consequences to me, the detention and the essay I'm writing. I mean that what I wanted was for Mark to stop being horrible about people I love, and I don't think hitting him accomplished that, so it wasn't a very good idea. 

There was a lot more, because we were there for hours, but that was the main point. But I don't know what I could've done instead that would've been more effective. I've been thinking about it, and I still don't.

In a way, it did help. I've met a few other boys because of it who think what I did was right and brave and also 'really cool'. I didn't expect that. And a lot of people here said that it was good to stand up for your family, too, and that some things are worth fighting for.

I don't know if that's true or not. A lot of things are confusing right now. But even though it wasn't very effective, I don't think I'm sorry I hit him. 

christmas dinner

Last year, Christmas was pretty small. This year... L was joking when he said people might have to bring their own chairs, but I'm not sure they won't. Everyone I've asked so far has said yes, and I'm trying to think if there's anyone I've forgotten. L and I and the boys, Mrs Holmes and Mrs Hudson, Anthea and Harry, the on-duty members of the security team plus one who can't go home for Christmas. Someone might need to bring an extra table too. Maybe an extra kitchen.

I'm really looking forward to it. Christmases were always pretty quiet affairs when I was young, just Mum and Dad and Harry and I, at least two of us not speaking to each other, and one or more of us well and truly pickled before dinner. This was the sort of Christmas I wanted back then, with loads of people and ridiculous decorations and more food than anyone could possibly eat. We've got two out of three already.

i'm perfectly fine

Yes, I went to work, and I must not actually look like 'the undead' (thanks, L) because Sarah didn't send me home. Now I'm almost to Harrow to pick up Mycroft (and Anthea, dogs, half the world's supply of books) for the Christmas holidays.

We'll drop his things at home, go and fetch Sherlock, and then I might sit down. Forever. 

this is going to be weird

A little over a year ago, Mrs Holmes picked me up in a black car for the strangest job interview I've ever had. I keep putting off writing about it, and what happened after, because...well, I don't quite know how. The whole thing seems like a film, or a very odd dream.

She sent me a contract that night. I signed it. A car picked me up the next day and drove me to Devon, to Baskerville Hall. It's large. Really large. Composed mainly of stone, spookiness, and charming crenellation through which people can shoot arrows at you if they so choose. The staff turned out to meet me - Mrs Hudson, her husband, and Anthea, who was posing as a maid at the time.

Mycroft welcomed me, shook my hand, asked Mr Hudson to take my bag upstairs. Beginning a tradition, Sherlock kicked me sharply in the shin and ran off.

I worried, obviously. Five year olds shouldn't be allowed to run off into man-eating swamps. But my leg was a lot worse then than it is now; I used a cane all the time, and I didn't have a prayer of catching him. I had enough trouble with the stairs.

Mycroft and I had tea and an interesting conversation about people willingly giving up their privacy in exchange for the opportunity to vent to strangers all over the internet. At the time, I didn't think that applied to me at all...

*

Anyway. More another time, if I remember, or if you have questions.

In other news, I found out from his teacher today that Sherlock wants to boycott the school Christmas show because, shockingly, some of the children don't quite sing on key... This should be interesting. 

popcorn and paper chains

When we eventually get this Christmas tree, it will be so coated with paper chains and popcorn strings that there will be no room left on it for ornaments. Sherlock's been making the chains out of anything and everything he can find, from construction paper to magazines to pictures of different insects he's printed off the internet...and added glitter to. Glitter on everything.

There's unintentional glitter on the popcorn too. Maybe it'll keep the dogs away from it when they come home. It can't taste good. We had some trouble with the popcorn strings initially. I'd never made them before, and they're very easy to accidentally pull off the thread...or not accidentally, although Sherlock did mostly stick (in some cases literally) to the stuff in the bowl, since it had butter and salt added.

Also I almost set the kitchen on fire making it in the first place. But only almost. 

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.

lestrade?

Can't get you by phone, I suspect you'll check this before anything else. Can you pick Sherlock up from school today? I have to go to Harrow. 

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. 

work and questions

Well, that's my two days at the surgery done. We'll see when she wants me next. Not for a while I'd imagine, or she would've said before I left. It was all right. Strange. Very... I don't know. Just very different from what I was used to, I suppose. I kept looking around and expecting to be somewhere else entirely.

L came for lunch today, or rather brought us lunch today - he brought a sandwich for Sarah as well, which was kind, and showed up on his bike looking rugged and manly and turning heads, as he does (and denies doing). He and Sarah seemed to get on well, which was nice. He insists she likes me, which... I don't know? Wasn't paying attention. If so, it doesn't seem to be making things awkward, so that's all right.

It's the last day of the month, and I still have quite a few unanswered questions. A lot of them are 'what's your favourite' or 'pick just one' sorts of question, which apparently I find really difficult. Here are some answers.

Random Anon Lurker asked about Americanisms or Canadianisms, and this isn't quite that, but it is the first thing I thought of when I read the question:

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. 

cake and roller skates and birds

X and Innie both wanted to hear something about me and Harry growing up... Let's see.

There's the story I told Sherlock once, wherein I tried to scale our fridge to get the cake our mum had put up there for safe keeping. Harry was ostensibly watching me since our parents were out, but she was in the next room. I managed to fall and break my arm. She put me on her bike and rode all the way to the hospital, singing Folsom Prison Blues - a song which, yes, I liked even at six years old.

And before that... One of my first memories is of being maybe three or four and getting pushed off the swing by some older kids. Harry hit one of them in the stomach with her roller skates. She got in a huge amount of trouble for it, mostly because she refused to apologise to him. I still think it was pretty brave of her. She was only seven herself.

When I was seven and she was ten, we found this baby bird. It was just sitting in the middle of the road, no nest anywhere nearby that we could find. We took it home and hid it in my room. We had all these plans around taking care of it and what we'd do when it grew up, how we could train it to carry messages and spy on our evil neighbour. (Note: not actually evil, just didn't like us stealing his apples.)

my bug

Hi this is Sherlock. I drew a picture of my bug since I couldn't keep it but I think it would've liked to live inside with me all winter where it doesn't get cold and I could have fed it leaves and things because I think that's what it eats and then it could go back outside in the spring but John said no.

I looked up on the internet about people who collect bugs and butterflies and it said how to make a killing jar with a piece of cotton with alcohol on it but I didn't want to kill it, I just wanted to keep it. I have some dead bugs but they were already dead when I found them. Is that how the museum got all their bugs and butterflies? If there were bug detectives, the museum people would get in trouble for that.

John is watching the tennis and Lestrade is still at stupid work and I'm booooooorrrrreeeedddddddd. 

babysitting

The mostly mobile one has been chasing Sherlock around the sofa for over ten minutes. Neither of them are tired of it yet. Amazing. The baby is trying to eat L's mobile, his keys, his fingers, anything within range, basically.

I imagine we should take them to the park soon if we're going to. And then I really don't, but it seems to be going well so far. It's mostly just keeping one away from electrical outlets and changing nappies. Any suggestions? 

raising the dead

Trills wanted to know: It's a well recorded FACT that Medical students throw the best/most outrageous parties. So can we have a story from your uni days please! 


I think the best one was when we didn't take a dead body to the pub with us.

I can't remember whose idea it was (certainly not mine), but I do remember Ian getting the short straw.

When we moved the party from our flat to the pub, Ian was dressed in a hospital gown and painted a pale grey with the help of his girlfriend's make up and some food colouring. He had an arm slung round Will and Alan, and by the time we got through the pub door, they were carrying him.

We parked him at a table, got him a pint, which he didn't touch, and sat with him to watch the match.

He had a toe tag for verisimilitude, but Jamie had decided no one would notice it on his toe (especially since he'd insisted on wearing socks) and had hung it from his ear instead.

We got increasingly concerned looks from everyone in there, customers and staff. They all knew we were med students. Everyone knows what med students get up to with dead bodies.

Eventually someone called the police.

The PC who showed up saw us straight away, came over, started talking to us very seriously about respect for the dead the difference between a prank and a crime, and then Ian tapped him on the shoulder and offered him a pint. I have never seen someone jump so far straight back in one go, before or since.

In conclusion: it's a good thing he had a sense of humour, and in retrospect I'm very glad that wasn't how I met L!

in other news

At some point, someone asked to see our bookshelves. I suspect RR, but I didn't write it down, sorry. This is from Mycroft's room, though the Smyth Grammar is now at school with him. He says to tell you he has the Great Scott with him as well. I think it's some sort of classics joke.

In other news, I had a job interview this morning at a local surgery. It confirmed what you all already knew and what I suppose I knew as well - my schedule really doesn't allow for another job, even with all the free time I have in the day.

The woman who interviewed me - Sarah - was very nice about it, but in the end there are too many variables I can't work around. So, nothing regular, but she is having me in two days next week when one of her other doctors is off, so that's something. She says if it works out (by which I suppose she means I do a decent job and don't fall asleep at my desk?) it might be a semi-regular thing when she needs someone to fill in.

Not bad. 

the haunting

Sort of a prequel to last night's post. In writing about that I remembered that part of why I wanted to go outside in the first place was the building we were in. When I got there, we were in a tent, but in the middle of November they moved us into an abandoned mental hospital.

It was large, and made mainly of brick outside and cement inside. Lots of interior rooms with no windows, or windows that only looked out onto hallways, with green peeling paint and patches of green mould. Barred doors between sections. Marks on the walls.

It had occasional electricity and running water, so in that respect it was a step up. In just about every other way, it was a step so far down that it should've come with a warning sign and some red paint.

About a week after we moved in, one of the nurses told me he'd seen shadows moving on the walls, human-shaped shadows, when he was the only one in the room. I had a patient ask me if the medication she was on could make her hallucinate. She didn't want to say what she'd seen.

white christmas

There were a number of people who asked for army stories, and this isn't really one, but it's what your'e getting anyway.

In 1999, I spent Christmas in a field hospital in Kosovo. I was 28, and it was the furthest I'd even been from home. I'd requested the transfer there, got approval in June, and I was over there by October.

It was... Well, it was bad, obviously. It was worse than I'd thought it would be, worse than I could have imagined it being, because knowing what will happen and seeing it happen around you are completely different things.

But it was also what I'd wanted, in a lot of ways. We were understaffed, and I had no time to think about anything but the work in front of me, and it was necessary work - more cleaning out bullet wounds, less twenty prostate exams in a row followed by ingrown toenails. Mainly, I was happy, or too tired to feel much at all, which was just as good.

And then Christmas day came, and everything was dead quiet for once. I was sent off to get some more sleep, which I did not do. It was snowing like mad, and I went outside, and I remember standing there for... I don't know how long. A long time. At least an hour. The snow was up over my shoes by the time I moved.

It was so cold, and white, and quiet, after those first few months in the field hospital.

That's all. No story really. Just one of those moments I'll always remember. 

Not a real post

I cannot put a real post together today. My brain just isn't working properly. So, how was your day?

Also, if anyone cares to answer, a few posts ago when I was talking about being generally useless at talking about myself, a few of you said that I showed more of myself than I meant to. What did you mean by that, specifically? Or do I want to know?

impossibilities

So. Yesterday, one year ago, we all met Lestrade. It seems impossible that it's been that long and equally impossible that we haven't known him longer. Equally impossible that I haven't known Sherlock and Mycroft for much longer. Completely impossible that a year and a half ago I was still in Afghanistan.

Yesterday we went ice skating and to the Natural History Museum, wandered around, saw dinosaurs, got coffee and hot chocolate, had generally a marvelous day. I took L out for dinner, and afterwards he took me out dancing.

We weren't quite the oldest people there, but they were mainly in their twenties, generally sweaty, often shirtless. It was easy to imagine L there at that age. I wasn't sure I would like it (me and dancing...no) but it was actually a lot of fun. I have never been fond of being packed into crowds like that, that kind of heat and enforced intimacy with strangers and lack of an obvious exit route, but with L there it was...really nice. I didn't notice the rest of it so much, just him.

We got back...late. Later than I had planned. Poor Sally was asleep on the sofa. We definitely owe her baked goods of some sort. Probably more than one sort. She did say Sherlock wasn't much trouble though, which was a report we've previously only heard from Anthea, who would define a small bomb as 'not much trouble'. 

a difficult post to phrase politely

Anon wanted to know: When you've been with girlfriends is there anything you miss about men? And now you're with Greg is there anything you miss about women?

The short  answer is no. The slightly longer answer has to do with romance and why I've historically been pretty terrible at it.

In my early thirties I had a string of short-lived relationships with women - a few months each - and I came out of each of them not missing men exactly, but missing how much simpler things usually were with men. And I know (or assume) your question was referring to physical differences, but I never really cared about those much, it was all fine, all good.

The differences I saw were mental and emotional...and also they were nothing to do with the differences between men and women. They were about the differences in romantic relationships vs non-romantic.

But I didn't realise that for a long time, and in the back of my mind I think I blamed the women I was with for not being more like men. By which I meant wanting more of me than I was willing to give to anything except my job and my team.

And then I met Laura (the woman in Egypt, owner of Biscuit), who had no interest in me romantically, and that was great. And as a side effect, I became slightly less of an idiot.

Well. Maybe slightly less of an idiot. Because mainly it served to convince me that I wasn't fit for a romantic relationship at all. Maybe that was true at the time. Maybe not. I don't know really.

But in answer to your actual question instead of rambling about romance: no. I love the human body, I think it's amazing in just about every form, and there are so many more (and more important) differences - even just physical differences - from person to person than male vs female that I just don't think of it that way. I have occasionally missed someone's specific physical traits, but not not men or women in general.

home

At a tube station I go through pretty often - nice to see Harrow up there, makes me think of Mycroft. 

Pip wanted to know: What is your favorite indulgent treat? Something that you absolutely love but don't eat very often either because it's so bad for you or it's just too good to have very often.


Hmmm. Maybe Lestrade's pasta with X number of cheeses - I think it's meant to be quattro formagio or something, but it's not really four; it varies from three to seven. It's cheesy and delicious. There might be cream as well? Not sure.

Before I knew him and ate his pasta of many cheeses, it was probably the chocolate cake my mum used to make on very special occasions - older relative's birthdays and things like that. It was chocolate cake with chocolate chips in it and some kind of butterscotch frosting. Delicious.

I went to get Mycroft from school today - out on the tube, where I took the above picture, and back in Anthea's 4x4 with her, Mycroft, two large bags of things Mycroft's decided he doesn't need at school, and two even larger dogs.

Dropped Anthea off, took Mycroft and dogs to the park, where the dogs ran as if they'd been confined for a month, which I know they haven't been. At what age do enormous hounds of indeterminate lineage start to calm down?

Mycroft and I walked and talked for a while and then went to fetch Sherlock. The dogs got many hugs from Sherlock's classmates. I don't think they've seen them since Mycroft went to school. There was a lot of face licking and vaguely concerned look from some of the parents, whether about dog germs or their children getting eaten, I'm not sure.

And now, as L said in his post, everyone's here, and it's warm and cosy and generally perfect. One of those nights you wish could last forever.

stars and balls

X has once again kindly let me post her art with my bum in it.  At least this one has L's too! 

Calliope wanted to know: how about your favorite wintertime activity: snow angels, snowman building, decorating, making baked goods, etc.?


Eating the baked goods? Is that an option? Well. The decorations, maybe. I always liked doing the tree, even though Harry and I had some truly absurd (and loud) arguments over who got to hang which ornaments and who got to do the star. The favoured ornaments were the glass birds and the the hand-painted glass balls so we usually traded (after extended negotiations) two birds and a ball for the star-hanging rights.

Mum always put the lights on herself the night before, because she was (and is) convinced that none of us do them right. She stores them wrapped carefully around the cardboard tubes that wrapping paper comes on and lays them all out on the floor before she starts. We were generally not allowed past the threshold of the living room till she was done.

The tree was all we did in the way of decorating, and last year it was all we did here too, but I'd like at least a wreath this year as well, and I want to take the boys to pick out ornaments. I don't have any, and while their mum did find a small box of family ones, the tree was a little sparse. And they hadn't got to pick any of those, and they should have some say. L, do you have ornaments in any of those boxes you haven't unpacked?

non-answer

Nameless said: Given Lestrade's lovely post today, how about telling us about his most endearing quality?


And I've been thinking about it since she asked, without getting any closer to a real answer. Because it's everything. His kindness and love and warmth. His endless patience with the boys and with me and my baggage train of psychological issues.

How angry he gets - still, after all the years he's done this job - at the ways people hurt each other, how hard he works to fix what he can. How deeply he feels what he can't fix.

The ways he lets me know, literally every day, that he cares and wants me in his life. Everything.

And having said I can't pick... Maybe if I had to, it would be the way he doesn't ever give up, on his work, on me, on himself. Even when things are hard, or look hopeless, he's always willing to keep trying.

That seems like such a clumsy description, but it's the best I can do right now and I really wanted to post this tonight.

Someone give me easier questions for next time please.

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.

lord innuendo

Danger - You've got to write the next chapter of Greg the Florist. If Greg inherits a large manor house then I wouldn't complain.

L - Just remember, this is your fault.

When John came into work, he found the door locked, and the shop dark. He knocked anyway, and it was only a few seconds before Greg pulled it open in a jangle of bells and pulled him inside. His face was very serious.

"John. I have to tell you something."

"Are you firing me?"

"What? No!"

"Have you got a boyfriend?"

"I... Well, I hope I've got you. But. This is a little... Something's happened."

John tried not to let himself speculate further. "All right. Tell me."

how i got arrested in egypt, twice

Once was a case of mistaken identity. Someone who looked like me (by which I mean: was English, not a giant, and had sort of indeterminately coloured hair) had started a fight with a man who was selling chickens. I presume over the price, but that was never entirely clear. Anyway, he hurt the chicken seller pretty badly, got laid into by a couple of the chicken seller's friends, and then ran off.

Meanwhile, nearby, a friend of mine had lost her dog (chihuahua, named Biscuit). I was running after Biscuit. Biscuit was so small as to be pretty much invisible to the naked eye. The police saw a man fitting their suspect's description running away.

They shouted, and when I realised it was me they wanted, of course I stopped. I'd lost sight of Biscuit in the crowd by then anyway. Things were complicated by the fact that their suspect spoke Arabic and I didn't. They thought I was being difficult. I was completely confused.

They took me in, and I was there for about eight hours, even after the chicken seller came to have a look and said I was not the man in question.

Everything worked out in the end. They found the man who did it. Biscuit found her way home. I was released, albeit with some resentful looks for not being who they thought I was.

The second time I don't remember very well. I was pretty ill. I suspect the food at the hotel where I was staying. I'd gone out to get bottled water and something I could stomach, but it was all too bright, too loud, I was dizzy, there was vomiting. Not pretty. I was taken in for being (they thought) drunk and disgusting in public.

It was probably for the best. They realised their mistake pretty quickly and gave me water and crackers rather than throwing me out on the street, which was kind. By that evening I was all right to get back to the hotel on my own, and a few days later I was fine.