Ouch. Ever dig out a pair of shoes (and I could lie and say I have some fancy imported shoe storage device but you know it's just a shoe midden piled under my dessing table, which is in itself a hat, scarf, hairband, odd piece of bling and ye olde crumbly cause I never wear it being uber sensitive makeup midden) and you say, hey, thse are pretty stylin', even for a pair of sandals, why don't I wear these actual brand name shoes and then, while you're walking to work, you remember exactly why you threw the damn things up the back of the damn shoe midden in the first place, actual brand name or no.
This is why I have no luck with shoes. My feet are all mishapen, wide where they should be thin, thin where they should be wide, and there's no point wasting good money on shoes I can't walk in, and, baby, I need to walk in my shoes. I may not look it, but I sure clock up the mileage. Why, on Wednesday, while running about on errands, my poor ankle swelled up again so bad the strap cut into it, so I have a bright red festy cut ringing my poor ankle right now. Ouch.
I only found these shoes looking for my old, old scungy house thongs because watering the garden had made a right muddy mess of my pretty pink sparkly beach thongs, and I probably should translate for the Yanks but you know what, not gonna. Deal with the confusing imagery, cause it'll just about make up for the faux paus I've made with words like skivvies (apparently underwear in the US) and the time I called Gunn the new boy, not realising that it was a racial slur, when I just meant he was the new man friend in Wesley's life, at the time. Sheesh.
So yeah, me doing the watering at dusk in my sparkly pink thongs. Deal. Actually, it used to be a meditative activity but last night it was one of the more miserable experiences of my life, as the mozzies are now approaching pre Olympics DDT spraying (I've been sick ever since, funny that) levels and the bastards were lining up for landing space. You know that scene from African Queen? Like that, maybe worse. I think I might buy one of those burqas they had for sale down near the local mosque, just for watering in, with a beekeeper's hat, and gloves. Because I'm covered head to toe in bites and they sting.
I also learnt the hard way that I should always wear my silly widebrimmed gardening hat, even at dusk, because hell hath no fury like a magpie denied second suppers. Eeew, it had lumpy bits. Still, my hair hasn't been this soft and silky in months, so you know, maybe it is good luck after all - maybe my Celt ancestors were onto sometthing with the bird lime hairdos.
Whipped up an el cheapo dinner last night out of one of the recipes I'd torn from those mags I just buy for the Jude pics. So even if nobody appreciates the scans, at least I got some use out of it. Wasn't bad, even if the rocket was slimy compost. What can you do, it was that or nothing, as there are no grocers within walking distance (6km).
I didn't really get to watch much tv as I was running about for most of Charmed and SVU, and I missed half of that anyways because I was watching Patrick stewart on the Kumars (he was, indeed, amusing, as advertised) and, well, I dozed off in the second SVU so it was a good thing I'd set the tape for Dead Zone.
Hopefully I'll get to watch it tomorrow. I wish we had a modern washing machine that I could just set and forget and watch DZ while it tumbles away but no, it's all hand wringing and squeezing and rubbing with soap and water, every last piece, because AP is such a technophobe that the neighbours think we're Amish. Arrrgh. It gets me sometimes, the times I'd rather spend my weekends in my room, reading, watching, listening or writing, not in hard labour. Surely I'm up for parole soon?
In other news: Go send a postcard to help save Angel. Pretty please. I shall miss my 'dead gay show' (titter). I've grown accustomed to that show, their smiles, their frowns, their ups, their downs...
Another wee bit of an unfinished fic that I keep saying I must finish, at least once a month, sigh. Okay, previously on MacGyver (only kidding), The Indy has come across a small packet ship, no bigger than The Sophie, floundering at sea. Horatio is dispatched to take command, however upon boarding he has found, to his horror, that it is a plague ship, with none but the ship's doctor, an Irishman, surviving. Well, now the cat is really amongst the pidgeons, as even Horatio sucumbs to the strange wasting fever that has plagued the ship...
Horatio rested on the padded chests that formed a bench of sorts in front of the stern windows. The book drooped open in his hands as he watched the the daylights reflect on the water split apart by the wake fade from bronze to deep velvet with the setting of the sun. Violet turned to black, pierecd with stars, the ship's wake now a creamy river in the darkness. Four bells and the candle guttered slightly.
Horatio glanced up expectant, his pale cheeks flushed, his dark eyes warm with mild fever.
"Angelus," he addressed the dark figure who waited just inside the doorway. "You didn't come to dinner," he admonished softly. It was a breach of protocol, but he knew Angelus was busy, and their intimacy excused him.
"I was buried in paperwork," Angelus disembled, with a quick, unconscious but unseen glance at the stern windows. "I've not had time for it of late."
Horatio nodded in agreement.
Angelus was actually telling the truth, for once. He'd found the books that were meant to be in his keeping, had carefully scraped away the name of the ship's surgeon and written in his own, but had then fallen to reading them, especially the man's private journal. The late Mr Quince had fancied himself a student of natural science, and had been quite an astute of nature in all her detail, including life aboard ship. Angelus and ripped out and burnt the pages that had referred himself, grinding the ashes to dust.
Horatio waved languidly towards the table, still set, their meal now cold.
"You shouldn't have waited. I'm not hungry, and you need to keep your strength up." Angelus scolded mildly. He gathered up a place and utensils and, walking like a ship's cat, sat down beside Horatio with the intent to feed him.
"I'm not an invalid," the young man pouted.
Angelus smiled, holding him in his eyes.