Freckles & Doubt

Those dinky little calendars are dangerous. I am now seduced by the beautiful unbroken line of blue boxes, and am thus subliminally determined to blog daily at any price. This will undoubtedly fizzle out sometime soon, but in the meantime, what the hell.

It's stinking hot. Cape Town is sultry, calm, and wearing its diaphanous brown smog-band across its brow like a particularly ghostly bandana. I have a Headache, TM. I loathe, loathe, loathe the hot weather, and am profoundly depressed to see that the city and winter have clearly ended their torrid affair and parted, as the expression is, brass rags. The garden is drooping apace. All the students are blossoming into tight little T-shirts in this season's annoying orangey pastels. Blech. On the upside, the grumpy iguana icon (courtesy of Ursula Vernon) is stunningly appropriate. I feel just like that. Small, flumfy, too listless to bite, and distinguished by a lowering black cloud that spells "Grump!" in Indian Smoke-Signal.

It suddenly occurred to me that, since Friday night's Falkenstein session was climaxed by the dastardly descent upon Lilt the Dwarf by a gaggle of Prussian thugs, while he was innocently buying carrots, I really should work out exactly where they have taken him after bundling him into the sinister unmarked carriage. On the other hand, wolverine_nun, who is one of my players, goes into hospital tomorrow for a Caesarian assault upon her unborn spawn Kathleen, who is craning her neck at an odd angle and declining to be born by normal means, so Falkenstein is likely to be in temporary abeyance for a bit. I am, however, getting D&D cravings, and may randomly assemble an alternative group for purposes of hack'n'slash while w_n and husband are getting to grips with parenthood. Or then again, given the heat-stress symptoms, maybe not.

Have finished watching Ultraviolet. Am in infuriated withdrawal, because it's very good and there isn't any more. See icon, iguana, grumpy, for the use of. Conversely, was it just me (again), or was Ghost in the Shell both arbitrary and anti-climactic?

Spring is here! Or so I deduce, from the rather pleasing way in which the oak trees are shyly putting forth that gentle green mist over the bare boughs. Only to have the fresh new leaves cruelly nipped off: this is Cape Town, which is apparently reluctant to relinquish its fitful but extended naughty affair with Winter, and is clinging to cold, rain and snow-in-Sutherland with the desperation of your true psycho hose-beast. I like winter very much, but it's been a cold one, and my bedroom, being a converted* garage, does a spirited morgue imitation in the middle of the night. In order to avoid a scenario where the occupant is, in fact, blue, cold and dead, I have been driven to the extreme response of, in addition to the five layers of blankets, actually sleeping in clothes.

wytchfynder is in town, and we had a very pleasant lunch yesterday, catching up on things academic, social and role-playing in the hallowed precints of the UCT club,which incidentally has to have the worst service in the known universe, even for Cape Town. We were able to assure the waitress, on leaving, that we didn't actually hate her very much, but the assurance had a hollow ring.

The Disney class, inevitably, given my inflammatory fate-tempting statements, has woken up; specifically, my comments on Disney as American culture are gingering the American exchange students something 'orrible. It would be preferable, however, if I didn't have to field any more comments along the lines of yesterday's gem: "You can't say that a Disney film reflects American culture!" Disney being a multi-million dollar commercial enterprise with the bulk of its film sales in America, I can only say that I'm amazed at the popularity of their Albanian cultural content with American audiences.

* not with any real conviction. It's more dallying gently with the concept of religious belief, while luxuriating unrepentantly in its old sinful ways.**

** Scroobious has really infected me with footnotes. Or maybe it was Terry Pratchett.

LiveJournal, for reasons best known to itself, will not permit me to fiddle with the colours on this darned thing. I suspect it's because I'm an Opera-using lifeform scorning all things IE.  Bother. 

In other news, I killed a major chapter yesterday, so obviously this blog business is good for my productivity.  Go me.  Have also embarked on a mad new career of bread-baking, to which end a sourdough starter is bubbling darkly in a corner of the kitchen, plotting to invade the house.  I'd forgotten how theraputic a total body workout kneading dough can be.  Remains to be seen if the bread is edible.

Am listening to Vera's complete collection of Muse, curse the temptress.  The current guitar backing sounds like Neil Diamond.  Strange but true.  I'm vaguely impressed, but I don't think Muse is going to shake my Radiohead fixation any time soon.

Next up, theory chapter.  Quail before me, pitiful text!