oh, to be in England...

In the Department of Random Bodily Fluids mucus is right out, but how about drool? The new Doctor Who season starts this evening. Sigh. Woe. Happiness. Frustration. Drool. Also, the poem from which I filched my subject line contains the phrase "All will be gay when noontide wakes anew", which is somewhat appropriate considering Russell T. Davies.

These crazed superhero antibiotics are making a battleground of my hapless form. Spandex-clad, muscle-bound drug-heroes leap tall buildings inside my cortex¹ and toss around zappy ray things and random bits of masonry at the cowering, quivering mucus hordes. Said hordes are fairly thoroughly defeated at this point, but the battleground effect is making me feel as though some sod has attached heavy weights to all my limbs and the top of my head.

However, I have (and this really requires a drumroll) finished updating the Carter chapter and shunted it off to The Nicest Ex-Supervisor In The World, currently hopping about New York on a sprained ankle, in the vague hopes she can tell me it's not actually rubbish. Hah! Take that, bunny!

B5 is at T minus 12 and counting.

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¹ Of course I have tall buildings in my cortex. You read my dreams, don't you? Last night it was werewolf-inhabited mansions and the machinations of the Unseelie Court unloading geases on hapless teens. (Geases? Is that even a plural?)

Bunny Threat Level: Note to universe: describing the BTL as "green like a jealous green froggy thing" is not an excuse for you to break out in perverse and disgusting Kermit the Frog covers of Nine Inch Nails. Really. (Thanks, kadekraan). Besides, current level yellow, rising to orange as I contemplate with grim determination the open spaces of the 10-day vac.