mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,
mockturtle
hellblazer06

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dream a little dream

I wish I had a million dollars.

Sigh. Just checking. The other week, I made a small wish. Last night, it came true.

Mister Sandman, bring me a dream
Make him the cutest that I've ever seen
Give him two lips like roses and clover
Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over

Sandman, I'm so alone
Don't have nobody to call my own
Please turn on your magic beam
Mister Sandman, bring me a dream

I could start by saying once upon a time there was a lonely little goth girl...but let's just cut to the chase. I was having a rough time a few weeks back, feeling really tired and ill and bitterly annoyed that I had nothing, and I mean nothing in my life but work. Bugger that, I thought, late at night, so exhausted I couldn't get up from my desk to go home. I want to do what I used to do. I want to curl up with a book. Something Neil Gaimany, absolutely. So I found 1602 in Kinokuniya and it was perfect. James, Matt, puffy pants, castles. Just perfect. It made me read more, watch more, dream more, dear lord, it even made me write. A gift then, without measure or price. Imagination had been returned to me. If I only could tell Neil, and say thankyou, I wished. So I did, last night. He just shrugged and told me that he'd received a real bitter piece of non fan mail about his portryal of James in the story, so we talked Stewarts for a few seconds, then I was moved on. That was it really. He signed my book, I said thanks, and that was it. Wish accomplished. It's a lovely signature, by the by.

It doesn't sound much but it was a grand night. He read some, he updated us on where all his many, many projects were up to and he did a Q&A. Then he did a signing. We queued for hours but I had the best queue buddy, Fiona, and we entertained each other thoroughly, reading stuff from books we randomly plucked from the shelves and minding each other's places in the queue as we squirmed up the front to get a good eyeful of the man who means so much to us, scruffy sod that he is. Kinokuniya also hosted the best signing ever. Seriously. Not only we're the staff friendly, clear in their instructions but always cheerful and helpful, they also walked up and down the line with bowls of minties and trays of cups of water. Bloody brilliant or what? They also had a guest book which they passed up the line so we could all write a little message or paste in cards etc while we waited. Other 'organisers', please note: this is how you do it. By treating us as guests, we remained chipper and cheerful throughout the entire queuing process and it was fun. So thankyou Kinokuniya, thankyou Fiona, and thankyou, so very much, Neil.

Of course, I should have caught a taxi home, but given the prohibitive price (more than ten times the price of a bus ticket) I decided to wait for the bus. And wait. And wait. and wait some more. I ended up spending two very freezing hours waiting for a bloody bus, and then I got bloody bus sick on the way home (too many minties?). I did get to see most of the late late screening of Deadwood, and it was brilliant, though it seemed just a bit more stilted, but never mind. Bullock has unbent a bit, so that was nice to see. Not enough Al, though. Poor Al. The indignities that not even Al deserves, yet has to endure.

Anyways, obviously, this meants my actual downtime can be measured in minutes, not hours, so to say I'm feel a wee bit wretched this morning might be a bit on an understatement. To add insult to injury, I shambled up to the stop not more than three minutes tardy I swear, and the bus swept through ten minutes early, not even stopping with me, in my big pink coat flapping my arms wildly, running behind it. Bastard. So I had to wait an hour in the bloody cold for the next one. Oh, that was miserable. Of couse the traffic was heavier by then so it took forever and I thought bugger, no time for a cuppa, but then I heard cycnus39's voice in my head saying "there's always time for tea" so I made myself my cuppa, and damn, I needed that cuppa. Bliss.

Restored enough to type up this blog entry, but if my co-workers could kindly refrain from emailing me today, I'd be most obliged. Ow, I feel like I had a damn better time than I did. At least in this exhausted and almost altered state I've thought of a way over my story hump. It's not original, because I'm swiping it from Sylvia, Twin Peaks, Angel and something else that escapes me, but it'll do, just to finish the damn thing and move on.

Speaking of influences, I just read that they're making a fillum of The Dark is Rising. Please, no. Just no. Another sacred, sacred and beloved text about to be desecrated and thoroughly butt-fucked by Hollywood. So, how much does a fatwa cost these days, anyway?

Oh, nearly forgot, Neil gossip: one more series for Marvel, maybe something for Sandman's 20th anniversary (ouch!), Wolves in the Walls is going to be an opera in Scotland. Coraline is going to be an animation. Mr Wednesday was based on Rip Torn, who was once very condescending to Neil, and Neil gleefully took his revenge. That's about it, this and the rest is pretty much up on his website. Still, fun, though. That's 'meeting Neil Gaiman' off the to do list, then. Excellent.

Hell, I chatted about Gunpowder, Treason and Plot with Neil Gaiman last night. Too cool.

Oh, but I'm paying for it today. Flippin' heck, I feel wretched. A fistful of asprin and a couple of cubic litres of tea just isn't doing a thing. Hypothermia must play merry hell with my sinuses (and, having spent four hours out of the last twelve huddled over in tempartures on a kissing relationship with freezing, I think I can use the word hypothermia without too many accusations of hyperbole). Yea gods, my head hurts, and it's making Paul much crankier than I mean him to be in this fic I'm trying to write on the sly.

Oh, crap, pointless meetings, inbox spammed with urgents. Where's a doona when you need to crawl under one?

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