It's the end of the world as we know it

I just heard a reporter on the BBC - on Radio 4, yet! - talking about "two passer-bys". Who could conceivably say that, and not be strangled in outrage by their own tongues? I grant that one says sergeants-major and attorneys-general more for the fun of it than the necessity, but passers-by isn't even pedantic, it's just right...

Flycon!

I will be participating in Flycon this weekend. For those who know not, it's a con-by-internet: no hotel bills, no travel chaos. Alas, the late-night bar conversations may be hard to organise cross-continent and cross-airwave, but we'll do our best.

The draft programme is here. At present I have the first author chat of the con - Friday 1.30pm my time, Saturday 12.30am Sydney time, other times to be worked out pro rata - and a panel on Hard-Boiled Fantasy, 1pm Sunday, currently with Andrew McKiernan. Do drop by, if free. More information and general guidance can be found here...

The life of forgetting

I was making pork scratchings. It's a two-day process, usually: I give the salty herby fingers of pork rind a long slow session in a very low oven, let them dry off overnight and then blast 'em twenty minutes in the heat next day.

This time, I forgot they were in the oven at all, so they got eighteen hours rather than eight: which left 'em looking utterly dessicated, and the fat apparently gone completely, tho' I don't know where. Okaaay...

I let 'em cool down today, and then put the first tray in the hot oven anyway, just to see what happened. And knew I was coming up here, and knew that I often forget that something's in the oven, so I set the kitchen timer.

And, um, forgot to bring it up.

And got involved in something on the internet, oh noes; and remembered just exactly too late, and went chasing down to find almost all the scratchings almost exactly burned too much to eat. Dagnabbit!

[ETA: just done the second tray, by dint of standing over them 'til done, checking every couple of minutes after the first ten...]

Also, the cats

So every now and then there's a scream of outrage somewhere in the house, a roiling chaos of cat-bodies, followed by the thunder of tiny paws, followed by an Awful Pause and then the thud-crash-splinter of something being broken, spilt or otherwise scattered to the four winds.

At this point, it is customary that I groan gently and go to investigate, snarling at any cat I might happen to pass en route.

Today, the danger-signs came from the kitchen: where indeed Barry had leapt via counter-top to the top of the fridge to escape his tormenter. It's a common route, but one I have been trying to discourage. Specifically, I had loaded the top of the fridge with Stuff. Which, um, was not very effective.

I came into the kitchen to find Barry on the fridge, in that space hitherto occupied by the big thing full of flour. The big thing previously full of flour was on the floor, as was the flour.

As was the kettle. As was the water previously in the kettle.

As was Mac, cheerfully nom-nom-nomming his way through the admixture of flour and water resultant. Warm porridge! he said, with his mouth full, because he has no manners.

We used to use flour-and-water paste to glue paper together, when I was a kid. Now apparently it's catfudz.

It's still bloody hard to clean up, when spilt all over.

Con stuff

Just in the spirit of catch-up: in addition to Flycon this weekend, I shall be at

Phoenix Con in Dublin, at the end of this month;

EasterCon in Bradford, over Easter;

Alt.Fiction in Derby, June 20th;

ConStitution at New Hall, Cambridge, end of July/early August;

FantasyCon in Nottingham, 18-20 September.

This year is all about the cons, seemingly. Sheesh.

In other news, perhaps I shouldn't work so much at the Lit & Phil; I seem to have forgotten entirely how to work at home. Which might explain why I've posted five times in the last ninety minutes.