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after 35, it's all downhill. Possibly into a leech-infested swamp.
Saturday, 1 September 2007 08:57 amHappy Birthday, dear ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wolverine_nun, and I am truly sorry that your otherwise pleasant, low-key and extremely well-catered party should have been the venue for the resurgence, after about five years lying doggo, of my Truly Weird Intermittent Food Allergy. The closed throat, itching, swollen lip and slightly trippy dissociation from the proceedings were in no way a comment on the evening or the food, although I suppose a particularly bloody-minded critic could over-read them into a gesture of sympathy towards your own allergies. Nor is there any way you could have either predicted or guarded against this allergy mishap - I've been reacting like this randomly since I was 16, mostly at intervals of greater than a year, and there has never been an actual common trigger discernible to the naked eye. I think it's either a preservative or a flavourant, a fairly rare one. It makes me explode. I console myself with the fact that no manufacturer ever seems to put it in chocolate.
Nor should you consider this particular manifestation of the Body She Is Scratched syndrome a doomful omen for your own advancing years. Normal people don't do this, really.
It has been an exceptional pleasure to know you for fifteen or so of your last 35 years, and I trust I'll be around to applaud your achievement of at least the other half of the three score and ten. I hope you enjoy the John Cusack.
I now retire to bed, pleasantly stoned on antihistamines, nursing an upper lip apparently three times the size of my actual head, and with a sort of equator and tropical zone about my person which are starting their first, faint, inharmonious itching, like an orchestra tuning up. This Does Not Bode Well.
Last Night I Dreamed: complicated adventures among many-roomed circular temples with interleading interdimensional doors that didn't connect in normal space. Highlights included someone (possibly another version of me) enabling our quest by self-sacrificingly drinking the Evil Hallucinogenic Stuff from the Highly Significant Ewer (which was, I have to say, a truly odd shape). The whole temple complex kept morphing in and out of a rather fey night-club in an old Victorian house, on about three floors of quite small rooms, all packed to the gills with gothy types in extremely tight, frilly and revealing black outfits. One room was entirely filled with postgrads from my department, similarly clad, but sitting quietly and slightly threateningly on the floor, waiting for me to talk to them.
wolverine_nun, and I am truly sorry that your otherwise pleasant, low-key and extremely well-catered party should have been the venue for the resurgence, after about five years lying doggo, of my Truly Weird Intermittent Food Allergy. The closed throat, itching, swollen lip and slightly trippy dissociation from the proceedings were in no way a comment on the evening or the food, although I suppose a particularly bloody-minded critic could over-read them into a gesture of sympathy towards your own allergies. Nor is there any way you could have either predicted or guarded against this allergy mishap - I've been reacting like this randomly since I was 16, mostly at intervals of greater than a year, and there has never been an actual common trigger discernible to the naked eye. I think it's either a preservative or a flavourant, a fairly rare one. It makes me explode. I console myself with the fact that no manufacturer ever seems to put it in chocolate.Nor should you consider this particular manifestation of the Body She Is Scratched syndrome a doomful omen for your own advancing years. Normal people don't do this, really.
It has been an exceptional pleasure to know you for fifteen or so of your last 35 years, and I trust I'll be around to applaud your achievement of at least the other half of the three score and ten. I hope you enjoy the John Cusack.
I now retire to bed, pleasantly stoned on antihistamines, nursing an upper lip apparently three times the size of my actual head, and with a sort of equator and tropical zone about my person which are starting their first, faint, inharmonious itching, like an orchestra tuning up. This Does Not Bode Well.
Last Night I Dreamed: complicated adventures among many-roomed circular temples with interleading interdimensional doors that didn't connect in normal space. Highlights included someone (possibly another version of me) enabling our quest by self-sacrificingly drinking the Evil Hallucinogenic Stuff from the Highly Significant Ewer (which was, I have to say, a truly odd shape). The whole temple complex kept morphing in and out of a rather fey night-club in an old Victorian house, on about three floors of quite small rooms, all packed to the gills with gothy types in extremely tight, frilly and revealing black outfits. One room was entirely filled with postgrads from my department, similarly clad, but sitting quietly and slightly threateningly on the floor, waiting for me to talk to them.
