Unhappy ... unhappy ... very very very unhappy...*

... except that oddly, suddenly I'm not.

You know how things not done can prey on your mind in the darkest hours, assuming monstrous proportions and certainties of doom? Well, like that. This weekend I have a stall at the Durham Book Fair, where I shall mostly be selling copies of Phantoms at the Phil, along with some of my own backlist (come and see me! come and buy books! save your Christmas, save my life!!). Tonight I have cleverly organised for my friends'n'web-gurus (web-gurii?) shewhomust and durham_rambler to come for dinner (that was their suggestion) in order that they might pick up boxes of books and transport them down to that fair city for me.

Struck me last night, as I lay fretfully sleepless, that all the boxes of Phantoms were still in my co-publisher's attic, on account of I had entirely forgotten to shift 'em down here.

So by morning I had entirely persuaded myself that John & Michelle would be away, and I would be boxless tonight and bookless at the Book Fair, and like that.

Also, I have woken up - if you can call it waking, when you rise after really not sleeping - with the first cold of the winter. And I have to cook dinner for five, with many many dishes. And I have to shop first. Urgh.

So. Like that. Unhappy.

But! I have just made the dreaded phone-call, and John & Michelle are not away! Moreover, they have a car, and will deliver boxes later today, so I don't even have to run up and down the hill carrying heavy boxes when I really need to be shopping and chopping and steaming and boiling and braising and frying and like that...!

So. Not unhappy. Temporarily. Though I wish I did not have this cold.


* is a lyric from The Producers (the musical version), if anyone was asking. I've been earwormed for days, on account of massing gloom-clouds, etc. It is the perfect fit of words and music and subject. And me.

In other news...

Either I left the fridge door open last night (which is, let's face it, unlikely) or else the magic lure of sossidge! pulled some brains into my boys, at their time of need; for lo, I came down this morning to find the fridge indeed open, and a half-nommed string of sossidges! hanging out of it as if it were a Punch and Judy booth waiting for its crocodile.

And I had been so pleased with them before, because they slept within touching-distance for hours on the bed last night, without either Mac pouncing or Barry running away. Then they disappeared in the early morn: to arrange their own breakfast, apparently, as I was conspicuously not getting up yet. Self-catering cats. I should've known there was mischief apaw...

Further to the fridge

Did I ever tell y'all about Boris?

Boris was a cat with two souls. One of them was the sweetest kitty-cat who ever lived, who would sit on you for ever if you didn't move and suckle your jumper and like that.

T'other was a big bad back-alley bruiser, the original ruffy-tuffy street-fightin' kitty; after spending all day being cutesy, he'd go out all night and beat up any other boy-cat on his territory, and come home bearing his scars with pride. (Until he got old, when he'd kinda slink home in bloody defeat - but he still went out to fight, because his little cat-brain never caught up with the fact that he really couldn't do it any more. Kinda like those heavyweight prizefighters who keep making comebacks, and losing, and losing again...)

Anyway. Boris and the fridge. Boris liked chicken; the chicken was in the fridge. Boris learned to open the fridge.

The bungee-cord went round the fridge; Boris learned to unhook the bungee-cord and get the chicken. (Actually, I have told you this story before; I remember asking what the proper word was for bungee, and we decided bungee was the word. Never mind. It's an anecdote; it's always better for repeating.)

The child-lock went on the fridge; Boris broke the child lock, opened the fridge and got the chicken.

Lastly, in despair, the chicken was left in the oven overnight.

Guess what?

Yup. Boris learned to open the oven. Smart little cat-brain (except in the matter of fights, and retirement...)

Dinner, pre-happening

My office smells ... mostly of caramel.

It's odd, how some smells seem more potent close-to, and others carry further. The kitchen is quite gingery, the hallway is all soy.

For yes, I am cooking Chinese tonight. I have caramelised sugar in oil (which I find bizarrely easier than doing it in water, or just the sugar alone: why is this?) for Chairman Mao's Pork; I have simmered Sweet & Sour Spareribs; I have fried & sauced Three Teacup Chicken. I should go now and prepare Genghis Khan Beef. And other things.

But, I confess, I am a little tired now. And - alas! - not at all hungry.

Also, I have to vacuum.

*sigh*

Cornsilk, cornsilk everywhere

It's true. I don't even like corn so much, but a couple of cobs came in my veg box this week, so I have concocted a dish: scallops, with corn and green beans in oyster sauce. We'll see.

But. That bloody cornsilk. Gets everywhere, it does.