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all bruised passivity
Tuesday, 26 February 2008 11:02 amRain! I'm all damp, and much less annoyed, and feeling less guilty about not having watered the garden in a while. It was getting all droopy and blasted-heath. Also, my previous medical aid, in a somewhat unanticipated gesture1, just paid me out enough on my cancelled policy to almost pay off my credit card. (Mother, stop dancing round the house, it's undignified!)
On the orang-utan civilisation front, this, courtesy of Mama Generica, is deeply appealing to my inner jack-booted fascist, particularly the bits of the inner jack-booted fascist which are deeply despairing about the state of the environment. Which is, come to think of it, most of them.
Bruise update: I apparently fell directly onto the edge of the step yesterday, because the bruise is as long as my hand and shaped approximately like a lenticular galaxy, about 5cm wide at the bulge. The purple is now shading, non-fetchingly, into yellow. I look as though someone's slapped me across the rump with a medium-sized lead-weighted cosh. Jocular sod. I can't even pretend to claim it's the result of any dodgily interesting sex-life, either. Sigh.
And, with reference to yesterday's little effusion about Outside, a quick caveat emptor: should the mood strike you for Bowie-acquisition, don't bother with the two-disk second edition. While my affection for the first continues unabated, the second disk comprises increasingly self-indulgent remixes of a couple of the songs, all mindlessly stretched-out beat. Bleah.
Last Night I Dreamed: a sort of subterranean adventure story, in which we dashed through giant underground caves filled with walkways and suspended rooms, trying to (a) collect pocketsful of gems, and (b) avoid the minions of some sort of giant, female, Cthulhoid horror. Eventually we crammed ourselves into a very small car and escaped into the countryside.
On the orang-utan civilisation front, this, courtesy of Mama Generica, is deeply appealing to my inner jack-booted fascist, particularly the bits of the inner jack-booted fascist which are deeply despairing about the state of the environment. Which is, come to think of it, most of them.
Bruise update: I apparently fell directly onto the edge of the step yesterday, because the bruise is as long as my hand and shaped approximately like a lenticular galaxy, about 5cm wide at the bulge. The purple is now shading, non-fetchingly, into yellow. I look as though someone's slapped me across the rump with a medium-sized lead-weighted cosh. Jocular sod. I can't even pretend to claim it's the result of any dodgily interesting sex-life, either. Sigh.
And, with reference to yesterday's little effusion about Outside, a quick caveat emptor: should the mood strike you for Bowie-acquisition, don't bother with the two-disk second edition. While my affection for the first continues unabated, the second disk comprises increasingly self-indulgent remixes of a couple of the songs, all mindlessly stretched-out beat. Bleah.
Last Night I Dreamed: a sort of subterranean adventure story, in which we dashed through giant underground caves filled with walkways and suspended rooms, trying to (a) collect pocketsful of gems, and (b) avoid the minions of some sort of giant, female, Cthulhoid horror. Eventually we crammed ourselves into a very small car and escaped into the countryside.
1 I'm not in the habit of thinking of insurance as something that pays me money. They're things you pay money to in return for not having to worry about paying money in the future. Orang-utans, may I point out, would probably never have invented insurance.
