I seem to be regressing, but also, recs!

No skating today, I have only nice things to say about the women and that's not funny at all! (Though there does need to be some effort put into matching tight and skin colours, it's ridiculous!)

The last fortnight has been a bit spotty. I came down with an ear infection that meant I was not confident in my verticality for some time. Hilarious to watch, but no fun, especially when it means I am even further behind on everything that I was at the start of February. Then on Tuesday night I gave myself colic, which is ridiculous when you consider my age.

As my doctor, an Oriental woman of a similar age tells me: 'Let go of the milk dream, you're a middle-aged Caucasian, lactose intolerance is your inheritance, be grateful you could scoff cream through your youth!'

And yet I chose to have ice-cream for dinner on Tuesday night as it was hot, and I could not be arsed to cook. When I woke up in the middle of the night with stomach pain, I immediately went to the ebola place, but a quick mental checklist of symptoms confirmed colic. I started off treating myself as I would a foundering horse (sans lead rein, I just walked myself about), then decided to go the baby route and cuddle a hot bottle to my belly. Of course this worked, but I felt ridiculous.

I thought this would be the most undignified moment of the week, but that was before this afternoon. As I was walking home through the nice housing estate near my work there was a gang of small children arguing over a bicycle (one owned it, two others wanted to ride it, several more were arbitrating). I was having a quiet giggle listening to the arguments ('I have to go home!' 'I just need to ride around the roundabout!' 'You can tell your mum we'll bring it back later!') when one of the girls said 'That little girl is laughing at us!'

I kept walking, but a shout of 'You! Little girl!' made me glance about to see who was being shouted at. Yes, it was me.

I looked down at them from my slight distance. 'What are you? Six?' I asked. There was general nodding and a few murmurs of 'Five.' 

'I'm 43!' I protested.

'Don't be ridiculous!' said the imperious girl, while the rest of us burst out laughing. That will teach me to wear my Lilla My frock to work.

My health is recovered, my dignity still dented, but the week has been immensely cheered by two fics. The first is from pushdragon . She and I went to see Pericles last year. This is one of those Shakespearean plays that are rarely performed, mostly because it's thoroughly stupid. She read the play the night before we saw it and gleefully greated me at the theatre with 'You didn't tell me there were PIRATES!' When I won a fic in her Haiti auction, I knew exactly what I wanted. Exeunt Pirates is the result, a brilliant tale with more than a touch of Scheherazade in the voice and a far funnier than Pericles plot. Full of great skewering jokes, fabbo H/D and a terrifically tight structure that will have you admiring the art if you can stop cackling long enough. I quote:

Yep. Kidnapped by pirates – the gangplank, the wooden legs, the cutlasses, the whole caboodle.

I beg your pardon? It's what?

When you say "totally fucking predictable", I have to ask myself whether have you ever stumbled across a dictionary in your sorry excuse for a life, or perhaps been struck a few too many times over the head with one. Look at a map. We were 1500 miles from Somalia, and in the wrong bloody ocean in any case.
 

The second fic is even sillier and yet no less splendid. wemyss  has deserted the Arcadian for a quick jaunt in the Candian and all things men's skating. Yes, my friends, this means H/D and Johnny Weir. It's another short read and with a cast of many all being splendid, bound to bring a smile to even the most jaded face. Plus, there's a threesome. The Age of Gold. Also Silver. Oh, and Bronze, Come to That. A taste:

As the man with the curious under-bite minced towards them, it was immediately clear that he was not in fact a Tory Member – and was a much younger man, and a Yank to boot.

He surveyed them coolly.  ‘Mmmm,’ purred he.  ‘Actually, my name’s Paris – every celebrity should have a blond friend named “Paris” – but you two can call me whatever you like, and I shall call you “Daddy”.’

I seem to be regressing, but also, recs!

No skating today, I have only nice things to say about the women and that's not funny at all! (Though there does need to be some effort put into matching tight and skin colours, it's ridiculous!)

The last fortnight has been a bit spotty. I came down with an ear infection that meant I was not confident in my verticality for some time. Hilarious to watch, but no fun, especially when it means I am even further behind on everything that I was at the start of February. Then on Tuesday night I gave myself colic, which is ridiculous when you consider my age.

As my doctor, an Oriental woman of a similar age tells me: 'Let go of the milk dream, you're a middle-aged Caucasian, lactose intolerance is your inheritance, be grateful you could scoff cream through your youth!'

And yet I chose to have ice-cream for dinner on Tuesday night as it was hot, and I could not be arsed to cook. When I woke up in the middle of the night with stomach pain, I immediately went to the ebola place, but a quick mental checklist of symptoms confirmed colic. I started off treating myself as I would a foundering horse (sans lead rein, I just walked myself about), then decided to go the baby route and cuddle a hot bottle to my belly. Of course this worked, but I felt ridiculous.

I thought this would be the most undignified moment of the week, but that was before this afternoon. As I was walking home through the nice housing estate near my work there was a gang of small children arguing over a bicycle (one owned it, two others wanted to ride it, several more were arbitrating). I was having a quiet giggle listening to the arguments ('I have to go home!' 'I just need to ride around the roundabout!' 'You can tell your mum we'll bring it back later!') when one of the girls said 'That little girl is laughing at us!'

I kept walking, but a shout of 'You! Little girl!' made me glance about to see who was being shouted at. Yes, it was me.

I looked down at them from my slight distance. 'What are you? Six?' I asked. There was general nodding and a few murmurs of 'Five.' 

'I'm 43!' I protested.

'Don't be ridiculous!' said the imperious girl, while the rest of us burst out laughing. That will teach me to wear my Lilla My frock to work.

My health is recovered, my dignity still dented, but the week has been immensely cheered by two fics. The first is from pushdragon . She and I went to see Pericles last year. This is one of those Shakespearean plays that are rarely performed, mostly because it's thoroughly stupid. She read the play the night before we saw it and gleefully greated me at the theatre with 'You didn't tell me there were PIRATES!' When I won a fic in her Haiti auction, I knew exactly what I wanted. Exeunt Pirates is the result, a brilliant tale with more than a touch of Scheherazade in the voice and a far funnier than Pericles plot. Full of great skewering jokes, fabbo H/D and a terrifically tight structure that will have you admiring the art if you can stop cackling long enough. I quote:

Yep. Kidnapped by pirates – the gangplank, the wooden legs, the cutlasses, the whole caboodle.

I beg your pardon? It's what?

When you say "totally fucking predictable", I have to ask myself whether have you ever stumbled across a dictionary in your sorry excuse for a life, or perhaps been struck a few too many times over the head with one. Look at a map. We were 1500 miles from Somalia, and in the wrong bloody ocean in any case.
 

The second fic is even sillier and yet no less splendid. wemyss  has deserted the Arcadian for a quick jaunt in the Candian and all things men's skating. Yes, my friends, this means H/D and Johnny Weir. It's another short read and with a cast of many all being splendid, bound to bring a smile to even the most jaded face. Plus, there's a threesome. The Age of Gold. Also Silver. Oh, and Bronze, Come to That. A taste:

As the man with the curious under-bite minced towards them, it was immediately clear that he was not in fact a Tory Member – and was a much younger man, and a Yank to boot.

He surveyed them coolly.  ‘Mmmm,’ purred he.  ‘Actually, my name’s Paris – every celebrity should have a blond friend named “Paris” – but you two can call me whatever you like, and I shall call you “Daddy”.’