See water and I

[desperance]

So we went, and they were wed, and all was well. There was champagne, and I drank it. I suspect I drank all of it. I committed Dancing, and Outrageous Behaviours of those sorts that I do when there's enough champagne to float a small battleship and me.

And we stayed overnight in a pub in the village, and woke to one of those breakfasts that you have foolishly ordered the night before; and then we went walking, shewhomust and durham_rambler and me. A stroll on the beach, and then eight or nine more serious miles up the coast and back, with a handy pub at the turning-point and crab sandwiches when we arrived back at base camp. And then a drive down to Amble marina to catch up with samarcand and his family and fall entirely in love with their boat (I could now be very boring about tonnage and rigging and engines and such, but I'll hold it behind the lj-cut in my head; you just take it as typed).

And so home, to be amused by the manifold wickednesses of Barry. He had shredded tissues all over the floor in my absence, and adopted a scrubbing-sponge as his new toy-of-choice. I gave him copious tea, and reached stage two in the making-of-confit, which is the cooking of the pork. And left it cooling on the stove in its fat, and came back an hour or so later to find pork and Barry and fat all over the kitchen floor. He's still a little greasy, and so's the floor.

And today I have written an application for a residency in Taiwan, and taken it to the post office in town. Twice. Thing is, I only found out about it on Friday, and it's urgent, closing date is looming; so I bullied the application together and hustled into town and realised about fifty yards short of the post office that I was missing a crucial element, so I went home again and went back again and bleah. And lord only knows if it'll arrive in time; I could've assured it by using a courier, but that was fifty quid, as against £3.50 for airmail. Guess which I chose.

And then I read some stories I should've read weeks ago, to judge for a competition; but I had to print them out and take them into town with me to the Lit & Phil, because one of the reasons I'm so late doing this is that I thought I could read 'em on screen, and I was wrong. Lord knows why; I read my own work on screen all the time, I read my e-mails, I read LJ (obviously). But other people's fiction, I just want it on paper. That's how fiction is.

Yes, I am a dinosaur. I'm probably extinct.

Comments

Regarding Cats and Pan-Scourers

[cornishmoth.livejournal.com]

We had a Tasha cat many years ago. He would go to bed with my parents and they would take it in turns to throw his favourite toy - a quarter of pan-scourer. He would retrieve said item from whichever far-flung corner of the room it had landed in and, unfailingly, return it to whichever parent was next in line for the honour of the throwing.
It may have much to do with the ease with which they can sink their teeth into that spongey bit and carry it around.
I loved the way he would sit at the end of the bed, scourer in mouth, looking from one to the other and working out which was the honoured one