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A number of things makes a post
Jan. 22nd, 2010 12:58 pmThe Museum of the History of Science in Oxford (which is worth a visit in any case, should you happen to be handy) has a steampunk exhibition inhouse for the next several weeks. Tragically, I am not expecting to be heading south within this timeframe, tho' a certain percentage of me thinks I should just drop everything and go anyway.
In other news, the boys are inveigling and seductive but I am stern and resistant, lo: I have not let them actually clamber into the pot wherein I have just set two sheep's necks.
"But, Chaz! Sheep's necks! One each!! You can haz all the potatoeses and onionses and carrotses and parsleys and water and..."
Yes, I am making Lancashire hotpot. Very, very slowly. It went in at noon, and I reckon it'll be done by eight tonight. Chortle. I love slow food.
Right now, I am mostly heating soup and printing out a copy of the new book for this last revision pass before it goes to my editor. I am of that generation that grew up with the phrase "sick and tired" constantly in our parents' mouths, as in "I am sick and tired of [whatever it might be]". I haven't heard it for years, certainly haven't used it myself, possibly not since I was a child, but it is much in my mind this morning. I want to say I am sick and tired of revisions, but mostly I think I'm just sick and tired, sui generis. I have no enthusiasm today for this work, or for any other; the height of my ambition is to go downstairs and eat soup and read a book. Actually reread a book. The last couple of years I have been all about the new stuff, but everything so far this year has been a reread. No enthusiasm, see?
Also, on the very verge of the launch of vol two, Jade Man's Skin, I have finally received official consent to out myself in a ruthless self-exposure. If I can be bothered. I don't think I need to here, do I? It's hardly news that Daniel Fox is not in fact a wan fey boy with fabulous cheekbones whom I wickedly keep chained up in the attic (alas). That I am Daniel and he is me has been described as the worst-kept secret on the internets. And yet, and yet: I do keep tripping over people who haven't twigged. So, yup. I am he and he is me, we are one flesh.
(Oh, and talking of one flesh and so forth, as this post seems to be a little scattershot: when David Cameron promises tax breaks for married people - especially if that turns out in the first instance to mean married people with young children - does anyone suppose that can be taken to include gay couples-with-kids in civil partnerships? 'Cos, you know, gays are not actually allowed to marry, so it'll be wonderfully prejudicial if not; and yet, if so, how gorgeously moustache-splutteringly outraged will be the Daily Mail...)
In other news, the boys are inveigling and seductive but I am stern and resistant, lo: I have not let them actually clamber into the pot wherein I have just set two sheep's necks.
"But, Chaz! Sheep's necks! One each!! You can haz all the potatoeses and onionses and carrotses and parsleys and water and..."
Yes, I am making Lancashire hotpot. Very, very slowly. It went in at noon, and I reckon it'll be done by eight tonight. Chortle. I love slow food.
Right now, I am mostly heating soup and printing out a copy of the new book for this last revision pass before it goes to my editor. I am of that generation that grew up with the phrase "sick and tired" constantly in our parents' mouths, as in "I am sick and tired of [whatever it might be]". I haven't heard it for years, certainly haven't used it myself, possibly not since I was a child, but it is much in my mind this morning. I want to say I am sick and tired of revisions, but mostly I think I'm just sick and tired, sui generis. I have no enthusiasm today for this work, or for any other; the height of my ambition is to go downstairs and eat soup and read a book. Actually reread a book. The last couple of years I have been all about the new stuff, but everything so far this year has been a reread. No enthusiasm, see?
Also, on the very verge of the launch of vol two, Jade Man's Skin, I have finally received official consent to out myself in a ruthless self-exposure. If I can be bothered. I don't think I need to here, do I? It's hardly news that Daniel Fox is not in fact a wan fey boy with fabulous cheekbones whom I wickedly keep chained up in the attic (alas). That I am Daniel and he is me has been described as the worst-kept secret on the internets. And yet, and yet: I do keep tripping over people who haven't twigged. So, yup. I am he and he is me, we are one flesh.
(Oh, and talking of one flesh and so forth, as this post seems to be a little scattershot: when David Cameron promises tax breaks for married people - especially if that turns out in the first instance to mean married people with young children - does anyone suppose that can be taken to include gay couples-with-kids in civil partnerships? 'Cos, you know, gays are not actually allowed to marry, so it'll be wonderfully prejudicial if not; and yet, if so, how gorgeously moustache-splutteringly outraged will be the Daily Mail...)