current location: The Cell
current mood: bored
current song: Abney Park's "The Wrong Side"
At this point of this symposium of intellect I'd like to turn the subject to the weather. Now, much as I am loathe to criticise this country for anything beyond its politics, economy, class system, size and the general wankery practised by most of its inhabitants—I live here because there are no maniacal insects whose bites make your gonads swell up and explode—I must affirm that I despise 364 of the 365.25 days of weather that we endure here.
This is basically down the Gulf Stream, a current of warm air or whatever that comes up from whatever volcano in Chile is currently spewing it out and carries it to the White Island using science that cannot be explained in a L'oréal commercial (and I have an attention span lasting less time than that, so I can't be bothered to do so). The bottom line is that the temperature in London goes from about 19F on 30 April to 90F on 1 May. As a way of comparison, if you put a frog in 19F of water and subsequently transfer it to 90F of water it will explode, which to an eight year old is about as fun stabbing ants with scissors, i.e. very.
The practical effect of this is me ending up pissed off that instead of taking my scarf and overcoat to work I am now researching revolutionary methods of removing my skin and soaking it in ice cold water. Call me old fashion, but upon deciding to live in a city on the same latitude as Moscow the least I could have expected what that it could be dark, cold and miserable; rather like me. It was also the kind of weather the Victorians liked, for as everyone knows the 19th Century was almost entirely obscured by fog. Of course, that they didn't foresee the need to leave space to, at some point in the future, install an Air Con unit rather smacks of the Universe's idea of a bad joke. Additionally, we also have to put up with walls so thick a mastodon couldn't nut them down, but this is offset by the major benefit of no falling down every time someone coughs at them.
I am not alone in despising this current state of affairs; the summer months of 2003 irritated a rather large number of people to the point where they died, ranking as the 14th worst natural disaster of all time just because it got a little warm. However, most people don't seem to notice this, probably because as soon as the heatwave hits they decide to go to Aruba to—yes—get a little sun, leaving me to stew in a hot office trying to afford enough money for a nightly sausage roll and stale muffin. Then, of course, these people are back just in time for the August flood season, which involves about three days of blissful rain before the whole sordid cycle starts again. This is also the three days when tourists and Hollywood movie directors come to visit, which is where the idea that London is generally a rainy city comes from.
Don't laugh at me: I fell for it. Next time, I'll live in Kursk.
I’m always the first one to mock weird casting/directorial decisions, though I usually don’t care that much in the long run. Life is genuinely too short to worry about this kind of thing. But in this case, I have to make my feelings on this matter articulated, though they be as articulate as a tack hammer. They roughly follow a headline theme, which can be expressed thusly:
Having my hair cut is the most regular uncomfortable experience I have to go through. I sit in excruciating silence next to a group of middle-aged trailer trash reading about some soccer player's wife while some twenty-something in a black assassin's garb and uggs gives me a style akin to a high school math student.
AG passed ten thousand words today. It's now officially a WIP! I had aimed for it to be around 100k, but as it currently consists of a few jumbled paragraphs separated by avenues of white I suspect it's going to end up being slightly more than that. My agent's going to be very nervous about trying to hawk anything over 110k though, so I suspect quite a lot of frou-frou will end up on the cutting room floor. I'm feeling good about how it's coming along from a literary standpoint, but to be honest I'm still not particularly wild about it. I strongly suspect it will turn out different to what it is at the moment in any case, but at least I have the skeleton in place.
Coming up with a story certainly helped. I still fear that it's going to turn out to be a huge mess though, and it'll end up being a long rambling LiveJournal post with occasional dick jokes. I am quite fond of my feeble excuse for how all the characters would have perfect teeth if it ended up as a movie, though. Makes me think there's hope for it yet.
On an aside, it is often remarked how thieves and rogues always seem to have a perfect grasp of dentistry. Unsurprisingly, an unchecked cavity or abscess can cause pain at the most inopportune of moments; there were a number of unfortunate accidents where an otherwise athletic thief had clutched their jaw in pain only to realise—a second too late—that they were supposed to be holding on to the window ledge outside the Marquis of Kensington’s lavishly high bedroom, located above a tragically spiked fence.
Eventually, the smarter thieves decided that if they were going to be involved in such a precarious calling, they were going to have to take better care of their molars. Consequently, and with some judicious use of a pilfered hairbrush and garrotting wire, many thieves not only had perfect teeth, but had learned to control such other potential career-killers as ingrowing toenails, muscle cramp and thrush. There were a few further thoughts about how to avoid the most common malady: the crossbow bolt, but all attempts had thus far ended in irreversible disappointment.
...Livejournal posts, you!
Hmph. I'm so busy, I can't make use of the fact I no longer have writers' block. Reading Northern Lights again and discerning that if I'm writing on form I can write to the same standard as Philip Pullman really helped. I've started stabbing at Albion Gothic again, but I'd much rather be writing Grim Tails. Having faeries performing whimsical plays of Grand Guignol is just an idea that really appeals to me at the moment. To be honest, I don't know what's worse: not knowing what to write or having far too much to write, with no time to actually sit down and do it.
Oh well, at least I have an arrogant mindset again. Armed with a haughty world view and enough hubris to support a lifesize inflatable replica of Atlas, a writer can bring down Governments with large clockwork steam-powered airships!
Someone at work died over the weekend. He wasn't particularly old either. *Sigh* Things like this make me very aware of my own mortality. Even though being alive sucks from time to time (the fact you waste most of it doing what you don't want to do) shouldn't discourage people from wanting to live forever. Certainly, if offered the opportunity to live forever (as something non-old and wrinkled, I don't want to turn into a cricket) I would jump at the chance like a moth to a slightly inebriated and infinitely more alluring moth. If nothing else, I want to see what happens to the human race, whether it screws up and dies out in the next hundred years or manages to colonise other worlds. If that happened I'd start using my immortality to cause an A Canticle for Leibowitz scenario on another world and revert to Dark Age scientific advances.
Mmm, moth date rape.
Why is it that whenever I start getting money in I immediately have to spend it on a bunch of stuff? In the last few weeks, my speakers have started to crackle, one of my monitors no longer works, and I'm completely out of hard disk space. At this rate, I'm not even going to have money for a Wii, let alone the 360 required to play the games I'm actually interested in.
Uh oh, cheese.