![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceSo I was a little late into the Lit & Phil this morning, for all the usual reasons to do with poor sleeping and poor get-out-of-bed motivation. Those cats are really not doing their job: snuggling up and emitting snoozons when they should be agitating for their breakfast.
And then I had to bake a loaf of bread, which takes an hour even after you have remembered to heat the oven, which can apparently take half an hour all by itself.
So, yup. A little less than ideally early into the library; so no great surprise to find someone sitting at my table. He does this frequently on a Saturday, getting in before me and occupying my space when he could perfectly easily sit somewhere else. He's not even using my power socket, grr...
But, yeah. I am accustomed to this; and there is another table out in the open, which I can use in such emergencies.
Which some other early-bird has spread some books about upon, to make it seem occupied.
I sighed, and grouched, and came into one of the alcoves. I really don't like these. The tables are too small and too low, and the walls of books on either side are constrictive and distracting both at once. And there is a cold draught down the back of my neck from the windows onto the light-well* directly behind me.
And I have been here for an hour now, pecking distractedly at my story - and there is No Sign of the person who seemed to have claimed that table. They've just spread books about and wandered off. Cackling, no doubt, at this mischief managed.
So now I am both sulking and seething, and neither of these is conducive. 'Specially as I'm trying to start a new chapter, and it's kind of like trying to bump-start a heavy car: much grunting and heaving, great effort, small progress. Oh engine, will you not kick in?
Still. Had a good gig here last night, with Val McDermid. We have done this before: it's the Chaz'n'Val show, which is not one hundred per cent dissimilar to the Chaz'n'Jules show, myself and Ms McKenna. Oddly, they are both graduates of St Hilda's College, Oxford ("Hildabeasts", in the parlance - which from the first day I heard it I misspelled in my head [for obvious reasons] as "Hildebeests", which I still prefer, but hey). There must be something in the water; according to Val's latest book, it is of course a body...
*This is a courtesy title; it's bloody dark out there.
ETA: and now someone's whispering. A lot. As if that were an okay thing to do in here. If we had a river, I'd be slipping a body into it round about now.
And then I had to bake a loaf of bread, which takes an hour even after you have remembered to heat the oven, which can apparently take half an hour all by itself.
So, yup. A little less than ideally early into the library; so no great surprise to find someone sitting at my table. He does this frequently on a Saturday, getting in before me and occupying my space when he could perfectly easily sit somewhere else. He's not even using my power socket, grr...
But, yeah. I am accustomed to this; and there is another table out in the open, which I can use in such emergencies.
Which some other early-bird has spread some books about upon, to make it seem occupied.
I sighed, and grouched, and came into one of the alcoves. I really don't like these. The tables are too small and too low, and the walls of books on either side are constrictive and distracting both at once. And there is a cold draught down the back of my neck from the windows onto the light-well* directly behind me.
And I have been here for an hour now, pecking distractedly at my story - and there is No Sign of the person who seemed to have claimed that table. They've just spread books about and wandered off. Cackling, no doubt, at this mischief managed.
So now I am both sulking and seething, and neither of these is conducive. 'Specially as I'm trying to start a new chapter, and it's kind of like trying to bump-start a heavy car: much grunting and heaving, great effort, small progress. Oh engine, will you not kick in?
Still. Had a good gig here last night, with Val McDermid. We have done this before: it's the Chaz'n'Val show, which is not one hundred per cent dissimilar to the Chaz'n'Jules show, myself and Ms McKenna. Oddly, they are both graduates of St Hilda's College, Oxford ("Hildabeasts", in the parlance - which from the first day I heard it I misspelled in my head [for obvious reasons] as "Hildebeests", which I still prefer, but hey). There must be something in the water; according to Val's latest book, it is of course a body...
*This is a courtesy title; it's bloody dark out there.
ETA: and now someone's whispering. A lot. As if that were an okay thing to do in here. If we had a river, I'd be slipping a body into it round about now.