the relentless march of time

The Army of Reconstruction have evinced a hitherto-unsuspected ability to warp space-time. I noticed a very weird thing when I took all the furniture out the room, which was that it suddenly, contrary to all logic, looked a lot smaller. Then the AoR moved all their paraphernalia in and took the roof off, and it looked enormous. Now they've painted it, and it looks tiny. I wish they'd settle on a size, it's unsettling. Also, I worry that I might not fit the bed back in again.

This morning was all sporty and thus strangely uncharacteristic. I went and bought appropriate t-shirts for exercising in, and then hied me hence to the gym for the nice biokineticist lady to report back on the various tests she did. (Including that humiliating one where they pinch folds of your flesh and measure them with calipers. There's something horribly personal about stomach flab). She informed me that I'm less fit than average, have a slightly raised cholesterol and a higher body mass index than I should. Quel surprise. I've only done no exercise whatsoever for about three years, after all. I am, however, bizarrely looking forward to getting into the exercise routine next week. It entwines me with a whole series of interesting machines off which I shall probably fall gracefully at intervals, to the entertainment of all beholders.

Then I spent the afternoon watching Angel with d_hofryn and the evening watching Say Anything with wolverine_nun. Lovely movie: I do enjoy random/inconsequential as narrative strategy, and John Cusack's characters always have that endearing ability to witter on vaguely and revealingly. I will have my men articulate.

In the interstitial hours between the important activities listed above, I played Oblivion instead of playing at being an academic. Notwithstanding this dereliction of duty, I have now substantially rewritten about a third of the Angela Carter Dreaded Bitch Chapter From Hell. It's a lot better than it was, and is now liberally be-sprinkled with authoritative references to a whole bushel of feminist critics¹. If I half-close my eyes and sort of squint at it, it even makes sense. Mostly. Also, the remaining two-thirds will require much less rewriting, and in quite a lot of cases, simple erasure. ("I do not like this paragraph. It is skraaatched!"). You lot can now stop encouraging the stv to new depths of bunny-depravity. Which is not to say that I don't appreciate all the moral support, because I do.

Just for w_n, the link I promised to how Lloyd Dobler has wrecked romance for all lesser men. And, because I like my men articulate in a Scottish accent, David Tennant witters on about Doctor Who. Plus teasers for the new season.

¹ Current hot contender for collective noun describing a bunch of feminist critics: a snarl. Oh, gods, I forgot to go to the feminist seminar at lunchtime today. See above.

Bunny Threat Level: Identical to yesterday. Put down that cowboy hat and back away slowly.