Liberties, the taking of: an example.
Nov. 27th, 2008 05:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI make - I may have mentioned - the world's best pork scratchings. Think something the length of a pencil, a little wider and curiously curled; crisp and delicate, with all the weight of fat cooked out of it; rubbed with salt and herbs before its roasting... Om nom nom.
This is just that time of the evening when I eat them, here at my desk with a glass or two of wine, while I work: type, crunch, slurp; type, crunch; like that. Slurp.
Between crunchings, the diminishing scratching - much like a pencil ever shortened by the sharpener - is laid down beside my keyboard.
There are - I may have mentioned - cats. Who treat my desk more or less as their own playground/bed/whatever, but I have struggled manfully to discourage them from treating my snacks as their own.
Not infrequently, Barry makes a flying leap onto the desk in a frantic attempt to get away from a pursuing Mac, who is Teh Evil.
Tonight? I am sitting here going type-crunch-slurp, om nom nom, omigod-I-still-need-a-page-and-a-half-omigod, type-crunch - and there is suddenly a small flying black furry torpedo materialising by my right elbow, shooting across the desk and levitating onto the mantelpiece beyond, all in a time too short to calculate.
I sighed, muttered imprecations, felt grateful that the wine was still vertical, and -
Crunch.
That was not me crunching.
That was Barry, that was.
Who in the very moment of his mad scramble across my desk had sighted, seized and run away with my scratching...
This is just that time of the evening when I eat them, here at my desk with a glass or two of wine, while I work: type, crunch, slurp; type, crunch; like that. Slurp.
Between crunchings, the diminishing scratching - much like a pencil ever shortened by the sharpener - is laid down beside my keyboard.
There are - I may have mentioned - cats. Who treat my desk more or less as their own playground/bed/whatever, but I have struggled manfully to discourage them from treating my snacks as their own.
Not infrequently, Barry makes a flying leap onto the desk in a frantic attempt to get away from a pursuing Mac, who is Teh Evil.
Tonight? I am sitting here going type-crunch-slurp, om nom nom, omigod-I-still-need-a-page-and-a-half-omigod, type-crunch - and there is suddenly a small flying black furry torpedo materialising by my right elbow, shooting across the desk and levitating onto the mantelpiece beyond, all in a time too short to calculate.
I sighed, muttered imprecations, felt grateful that the wine was still vertical, and -
Crunch.
That was not me crunching.
That was Barry, that was.
Who in the very moment of his mad scramble across my desk had sighted, seized and run away with my scratching...