Bloody Recumbent

What d'you get if you start off with a bowl of good gazpacho (made with roasted cherry tomatoes, say, and organic cucumber, red pepper, etc) and thin it down to the constituency of juice, then add tabasco and vodka in due proportion?

Yup, Bloody Mary for all. Rather a high-class Bloody Mary, indeed. Slurrup.

(I learn en passant - wonderful thing, research - that my own regular recipe, which includes sherry as well as vodka, should more properly be called a Bloody Bishop. Okey-doke, I can do that.)

Three's company

In some ways, I am remarkably like my cats: anything that comes into the house, I do rather tend to think it's mine. For keepsies.

I had houseguests, but apparently I'm not allowed to keep them?

They went away! pennski and bookzombie were here, and now they're not. We are desolate, the boys and I. We eat leftovers, and watch long movies about poor leadership, futile gestures and pointless heroics (that would be The Sand Pebbles, since you ask: a movie entirely constructed out of people making bad decisions), and ask each other when they're coming back.

It's a funny thing, because I almost never invite people here: I don't have a spare room, the amusing eccentricities of the house are more than counterbalanced by the inconveniences and discomforts, and pretty much the same is true of me these days; I am becoming more and more a solitary man, wary of committing myself to play with others.

And then people come, and, y'know? It's nice. Other People generically are weird, but my people are good people. So, yup. We want 'em back, thanks.

Also, after three days away from it, I poked gently at the novel this evening and I think it stirred. I'm hoping to wake it in the morning.