I am craving the weekend!

For I shall sleep like a log through all of it. Except for the short bits I get up and run about happily in.

I've been a dreadful shirker of everything from reading fic to sending birthday wishes (I will catch up! Happy generalised everything!), though have been exceptionally accomplished in house cleaning and guest management, as well as magazine problem solving. However I am so tired that I have turned to nanna naps and a failure to accomplish anything more complex than knitting gloves at the end of the day. Total written word count on stories in the last week? About 150 -- DISMAL! State of bags under eyes? EPIC!

Allow me to demonstrate the situation using images of my favourite person from history.

Normal Brammers gives off this sort of vibe (The Darnley Portrait):


While this is what I look like today: 


As a side note, my personal nickname for the second portrait has always been the Damn Me I Should Have Had You Killed Portrait.

I've spent the last 10 days at work swearing because a knitting pattern that we're reprinting was bollocks and needed rewriting in part and I could not get hold of the woman whose company published it to get the okay for my reworking. I have three or four days of patience, but after that, it's swear like a sailor and damn them all time.

Today I had just been ranting that clearly the woman in question existed to vex me and that I would never again buy her sexy and seductive yarns because clearly they were all part of a giant conspiracy to make me into a crazy person when the phone rang. It was her. She was delightful and thanked me sincerely for my work and congratulated me on my excellent rewriting, which she called perfect and superior. I assured her it was nothing and that I was only too happy to help and looked forward to this evening when I would be using some of her lovely DK yarn in the gloves I am working on and aren't all we knitting types just working towards more beautiful projects? Thanks so much.

I then hung up and threw my hands in the air . 'HA!' I said. 'OH YES! I AM RIGHT! I AM GODLIKE! IN YOUR FACE, KNITTING PATTERN!'

I turned around. Several of my colleagues were standing there. 'You,' said one, 'are that unusual thing: a really bad winner.'

They know me well.

I am craving the weekend!

For I shall sleep like a log through all of it. Except for the short bits I get up and run about happily in.

I've been a dreadful shirker of everything from reading fic to sending birthday wishes (I will catch up! Happy generalised everything!), though have been exceptionally accomplished in house cleaning and guest management, as well as magazine problem solving. However I am so tired that I have turned to nanna naps and a failure to accomplish anything more complex than knitting gloves at the end of the day. Total written word count on stories in the last week? About 150 -- DISMAL! State of bags under eyes? EPIC!

Allow me to demonstrate the situation using images of my favourite person from history.

Normal Brammers gives off this sort of vibe (The Darnley Portrait):


While this is what I look like today: 


As a side note, my personal nickname for the second portrait has always been the Damn Me I Should Have Had You Killed Portrait.

I've spent the last 10 days at work swearing because a knitting pattern that we're reprinting was bollocks and needed rewriting in part and I could not get hold of the woman whose company published it to get the okay for my reworking. I have three or four days of patience, but after that, it's swear like a sailor and damn them all time.

Today I had just been ranting that clearly the woman in question existed to vex me and that I would never again buy her sexy and seductive yarns because clearly they were all part of a giant conspiracy to make me into a crazy person when the phone rang. It was her. She was delightful and thanked me sincerely for my work and congratulated me on my excellent rewriting, which she called perfect and superior. I assured her it was nothing and that I was only too happy to help and looked forward to this evening when I would be using some of her lovely DK yarn in the gloves I am working on and aren't all we knitting types just working towards more beautiful projects? Thanks so much.

I then hung up and threw my hands in the air . 'HA!' I said. 'OH YES! I AM RIGHT! I AM GODLIKE! IN YOUR FACE, KNITTING PATTERN!'

I turned around. Several of my colleagues were standing there. 'You,' said one, 'are that unusual thing: a really bad winner.'

They know me well.

Excellent Scrap the Kitten news!

For those who were reading more evocative material that day, the other week, I found a kitten! He (as it turned out) was very small and adorable, and went straight to the vet for care (and so I wouldn't add to the cat collection at The House of Brammers). Here he is, over at our nice local vet surgery.



I called the kitten Scrap, and worried terribly about it, but the people at the vet assured me that it had gone to a very good home (after I stalked them by phone and visits for several days).

Tonight, we were over at the vets' picking up worming tablets for our two cats. B, our fave vet nurse, was back. For anyone who remembers the tragic tale of losing Minnie the cat, B was the vet nurse that came to our place and made Min's end as good as it could be. She was the one who coined the phrase 'Bright within herself' for Monster, our rather thick cat, and is one of the few strangers liked by the Cookie Cat. All in all, she is a fabulous vet nurse and friend to animals everywhere. We hadn't seen each other in about 20 months as she had left to have a baby.

After a brief chat about what we'd all been up to, I said 'You know, I found a kitten the other week and brought it here.'

'What did it look like?' she asked.

'Very little, and thin. White and with silver and red-brown tabby patches on its head and back.'

'And fluffy? And with a bit of a bite on his tail?' she asked.

'Yeah!'

She laughed in amazement. 'I took him home! That's so funny! I was wondering who brought him in, because he's such a special little cat and it's so good that he was rescued, how strange that it was you! He lives in my bedroom and he's in the cage at night because otherwise he's just leaping all over me, the naughty little scrap.'

'Scrap?' said Mr Brammers and I together.

'Yeah,' said B, embarrassed. 'That's what I call him. I know he needs a proper name ...'

'That's what we called him, too!' we said.

'Now that's just spooky.'

I shall sleep very well tonight knowing that Scrap has gone to a truly spectacular home. A very happy ending indeed!

Excellent Scrap the Kitten news!

For those who were reading more evocative material that day, the other week, I found a kitten! He (as it turned out) was very small and adorable, and went straight to the vet for care (and so I wouldn't add to the cat collection at The House of Brammers). Here he is, over at our nice local vet surgery.



I called the kitten Scrap, and worried terribly about it, but the people at the vet assured me that it had gone to a very good home (after I stalked them by phone and visits for several days).

Tonight, we were over at the vets' picking up worming tablets for our two cats. B, our fave vet nurse, was back. For anyone who remembers the tragic tale of losing Minnie the cat, B was the vet nurse that came to our place and made Min's end as good as it could be. She was the one who coined the phrase 'Bright within herself' for Monster, our rather thick cat, and is one of the few strangers liked by the Cookie Cat. All in all, she is a fabulous vet nurse and friend to animals everywhere. We hadn't seen each other in about 20 months as she had left to have a baby.

After a brief chat about what we'd all been up to, I said 'You know, I found a kitten the other week and brought it here.'

'What did it look like?' she asked.

'Very little, and thin. White and with silver and red-brown tabby patches on its head and back.'

'And fluffy? And with a bit of a bite on his tail?' she asked.

'Yeah!'

She laughed in amazement. 'I took him home! That's so funny! I was wondering who brought him in, because he's such a special little cat and it's so good that he was rescued, how strange that it was you! He lives in my bedroom and he's in the cage at night because otherwise he's just leaping all over me, the naughty little scrap.'

'Scrap?' said Mr Brammers and I together.

'Yeah,' said B, embarrassed. 'That's what I call him. I know he needs a proper name ...'

'That's what we called him, too!' we said.

'Now that's just spooky.'

I shall sleep very well tonight knowing that Scrap has gone to a truly spectacular home. A very happy ending indeed!