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desperanceBarry likes to sit like a gargoyle atop the fridge. I'm fairly sure he only does this because I am the perfect mark: I never notice, until I am actually taking something out of the fridge and then suddenly I get a faceful of cat, and react most satisfactorily. Every bloody time.
I love it when I commit DIY, and am macho. While I boiled rice for tonight's supper (later: I will fry it, and one should always fry rice from cold), I took out the tools and screwed a shelving unit to the wall. Yay me. It used to be a small bookcase, but I've put it right next to the kitchen and I think I might use it for overflow jars and bottles and such. I get a lot of those, and it would be dead handy to have them right outside the kitchen door, for grabbing. Hence the screw-it-to-the-wall,-Chaz; the cats can't spill it now, and I can't knock it over. And I have used Rawlplugs, which is always good for a Sunday.
Because I have been footling around and doing Other Stuff, I still have twenty pages to revise tonight and I am about to run out of wine. (That is for given values of 'run out', of course; I have plenty of wine, in yet-unopened bottles. But I have Discipline. Ordinarily. I don't open more than one a day, when I'm on my own and working.)(Ordinarily.)
I still have plenty of sausage, though. I will not run out of sausage. (This is the salami-type sausage, that I like to slice and nibble - with wine - while I'm working.) The word 'sausage' has an ineradicable effect on me, it makes me want to smile: when I was young, I had a comic-book annual, can't remember which comic but it had a strip about a failed German WWI pilot who was constantly crashing or getting shot down, and all he wanted was sausage. All through the strip, he kept getting a sausage, and bad things happened to it - one was shot out of his hand, I remember, when he tried to eat in mid-air. And finally he was safely on the ground and he had a sausage and rather than eat it, the fool said "Himmel! I could eat sausage until ze cows come home!" - And there was a thunder of hooves offstage, and suddenly he was trampled by a stampede of cattle, and he picked himself up ruefully afterwards with his utter wreck of sausage and said "Himmel! Ze cows are comink home!"
Which was just so utterly surreal, I adored it. At age eight, or thereabouts. And have quoted it monotonously ever since, to people who know not whereof I speak.
I love it when I commit DIY, and am macho. While I boiled rice for tonight's supper (later: I will fry it, and one should always fry rice from cold), I took out the tools and screwed a shelving unit to the wall. Yay me. It used to be a small bookcase, but I've put it right next to the kitchen and I think I might use it for overflow jars and bottles and such. I get a lot of those, and it would be dead handy to have them right outside the kitchen door, for grabbing. Hence the screw-it-to-the-wall,-Chaz; the cats can't spill it now, and I can't knock it over. And I have used Rawlplugs, which is always good for a Sunday.
Because I have been footling around and doing Other Stuff, I still have twenty pages to revise tonight and I am about to run out of wine. (That is for given values of 'run out', of course; I have plenty of wine, in yet-unopened bottles. But I have Discipline. Ordinarily. I don't open more than one a day, when I'm on my own and working.)(Ordinarily.)
I still have plenty of sausage, though. I will not run out of sausage. (This is the salami-type sausage, that I like to slice and nibble - with wine - while I'm working.) The word 'sausage' has an ineradicable effect on me, it makes me want to smile: when I was young, I had a comic-book annual, can't remember which comic but it had a strip about a failed German WWI pilot who was constantly crashing or getting shot down, and all he wanted was sausage. All through the strip, he kept getting a sausage, and bad things happened to it - one was shot out of his hand, I remember, when he tried to eat in mid-air. And finally he was safely on the ground and he had a sausage and rather than eat it, the fool said "Himmel! I could eat sausage until ze cows come home!" - And there was a thunder of hooves offstage, and suddenly he was trampled by a stampede of cattle, and he picked himself up ruefully afterwards with his utter wreck of sausage and said "Himmel! Ze cows are comink home!"
Which was just so utterly surreal, I adored it. At age eight, or thereabouts. And have quoted it monotonously ever since, to people who know not whereof I speak.
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(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 10:16 pm (UTC)I totally agree! Though it must always be fried in butter. Mmm...
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-17 02:35 am (UTC)It sounds oddly like a Richard Scary story.