sheldrake

I often wish I could become someone else, because I'm not mad keen on being me, really. I'm currently have fantasies of taking to wearing tweed and going off to live on a lonely moor with only my trusty spaniels for company. Sadly, it is not to be.

I am simultaneously reading naominovik's Black Powder War (I bloody love that dragon, I do!) and Whose Body by Dorothy L Sayers, of which I have found an online copy and smuggled it onto my flash drive for surreptitious at-work reading. This can be confusing, particularly as the surname Arbuthnot occurs in both narratives. Anyway, I can't help but quote Sayers, because she says things like:

His long, amiable face looked as if it had generated spontaneously from his top hat, as white maggots breed from Gorgonzola.

and (also cheese-based, but unrelatedly so):

...he sat sadly consuming that impassive pale substance known to the English as "cheese" unqualified (for there are cheeses which go openly by their names, as Stilton, Camembert, Gruyère, Wensleydale or Gorgonzola, but "cheese" is cheese and everywhere the same)...

You see? I must make a mental note not to go around talking like Lord Peter for the next three weeks.

In other news, dandywalker, galactic_jack and I have recently finished our Twin Peaks marathon, which has been most yay. With a generous side order of wtf, naturally. I must make a mental note not to go around talking backwards about cherry pie for the next three weeks.

In other other news, I am bored as anything, and cannot write at all, even a little bit, apart from I am sort of writing this post, which brings some relief I suppose. I thought I'd somehow lost a chunk of my Two Lines fic, which was distressing, but it turned out I'd actually gone and written it by hand! With a pen! So that was lucky. Only, it still doesn't add up to very much.

I was thinking, just as a sort of general observation really, that I'm not sure why I try and write, because it seems to make me miserable as much as it makes me happy. And then I realised that not writing makes me miserable too. So what I really want is for the very concept of writing to just disappear from the face of the earth. Then I could sit and watch episodes of House and Peep Show guilt-free.

Darn it! Lord Peter, or more accurately, the Duchess of Denver, appears to have infiltrated this post quite without my knowing it. You should all be jolly glad you're not me, that's all I can say.