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whups, fellover
Monday, 19 December 2005 11:22 pmThere's a small, technical flaw in my habit of not eating anything all day before having supper at jo&stv's, a tendency exaggerated somewhat today by my continuing state of mild nausea. On the upside, on an empty stomach one has more room for stv's killer Thai cuisine. On the downside, or possibly further upside depending on how horizontally one is attached to the carpet at the time, the flowly freeing wine goes to one's head really quickly on an empty stomach. Consequently, having just rolled merrily home, I hereby disclaim all responsibility for any typos in this post. It's only the sternest sense of duty which is causing me to update at all.
This morning started really early owing to the need to wake up before 7am to let Mother into the house so that I could subsequently take her to the dentist while my sister collected her husband from the airport. (Family. It gets complicated). However, the day improved rapidly after a buying spree in the nursery (plant type rather than niece type), ending with me spending two hours on my knees happily composting bits of garden and planting things, while my mother practised Grandmother-fu on the screaming niece. The degree of enthusiasm with which I attacked the gardening session can be verified by the fact that I ended the morning grubby, muddy, destressed, and with compost down what would, had I more of a bust, be my cleavage, clearly indicating that I'm taking this Earth Mother stuff a little too seriously. At any rate, my new, private courtyard, as created by the happily concluded activities of the Army of Reconstruction, shows every sign of becoming, after a few more years of unrelenting effort, an absolute Oasis or Bower, suitable for boughs, books, wine and outbreaks of Omar Khayyam.
I spent most of last night in frantic, terrifying dreams in which I attempted desperately and unsuccessfully to achieve elaborate decorations for a New Year's party, mostly in the cramped and understocked confines of what turned out to be a very small Walmart transplanted to a Cape Town mall. Don't ask me why my subconscious, after constructing that elaborate symbolic attack on the dignity of the American state, also felt the need for me to strike a blow for New Year decorating fervour by purchasing a handful of small, garish, plastic snowmen and a few limp balloons. I suspect the whole thing is aimed at reminding me that I really should be sending out New Year invitations. Well, bugger that, subconscious. I need to finish this encyclopedia entry on metafiction before I can do anything as frivolous as planning mass attacks of socialising.
Did a second-hand-bookshop sweep today, and scored a mint condition Red Mars and Interview with the Vampire, the latter more because my Dear Little Students will write essays on the wretched tome, than because I actually have any desire to possess a copy. Besides, it has Tom Cruise on the cover. However, this is partially balanced by the simultaneous discovery of Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, which has half of John Cusack on the cover, and the fifth Interzone anthology, so probably we're ahead on points.
This morning started really early owing to the need to wake up before 7am to let Mother into the house so that I could subsequently take her to the dentist while my sister collected her husband from the airport. (Family. It gets complicated). However, the day improved rapidly after a buying spree in the nursery (plant type rather than niece type), ending with me spending two hours on my knees happily composting bits of garden and planting things, while my mother practised Grandmother-fu on the screaming niece. The degree of enthusiasm with which I attacked the gardening session can be verified by the fact that I ended the morning grubby, muddy, destressed, and with compost down what would, had I more of a bust, be my cleavage, clearly indicating that I'm taking this Earth Mother stuff a little too seriously. At any rate, my new, private courtyard, as created by the happily concluded activities of the Army of Reconstruction, shows every sign of becoming, after a few more years of unrelenting effort, an absolute Oasis or Bower, suitable for boughs, books, wine and outbreaks of Omar Khayyam.
I spent most of last night in frantic, terrifying dreams in which I attempted desperately and unsuccessfully to achieve elaborate decorations for a New Year's party, mostly in the cramped and understocked confines of what turned out to be a very small Walmart transplanted to a Cape Town mall. Don't ask me why my subconscious, after constructing that elaborate symbolic attack on the dignity of the American state, also felt the need for me to strike a blow for New Year decorating fervour by purchasing a handful of small, garish, plastic snowmen and a few limp balloons. I suspect the whole thing is aimed at reminding me that I really should be sending out New Year invitations. Well, bugger that, subconscious. I need to finish this encyclopedia entry on metafiction before I can do anything as frivolous as planning mass attacks of socialising.
Did a second-hand-bookshop sweep today, and scored a mint condition Red Mars and Interview with the Vampire, the latter more because my Dear Little Students will write essays on the wretched tome, than because I actually have any desire to possess a copy. Besides, it has Tom Cruise on the cover. However, this is partially balanced by the simultaneous discovery of Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, which has half of John Cusack on the cover, and the fifth Interzone anthology, so probably we're ahead on points.
