blamebrampton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blamebrampton) wrote2010-07-16 11:55 pm
blamebrampton) wrote2010-07-16 11:55 pm
He has other charms ...
I am not a Romantic.
For most of you reading this will come as no surprise to hear, since although I don't mind the odd bit of romance, Satire, Rationalism, Pragmatism and Grumpy Old Haggisism are terms that will more readily spring to mind. And this is largely because you have never seen me.
Because the problem is: my inside and outside do not match. I look like a figure dropped out of an historical painting (thanks to genetics), and dress like someone from a children's book (thanks to a fashion sense grounded in comedy). To the casual observer, I look the sort of person who has a large gold-framed mirror, a fainting couch and a velvet-lined box filled with old billets-doux.
In the past, this caused me some issues, particularly with men. Indeed, when I was a young lass, there were several who sent unsolicited billets-doux and only ceased after the third or fourth returned with corrections, style annotations and a suggested reading list. By much dint of effort I was able to convince my general acquaintance that I was a woman of practical taste and that it was of far more interest to me whether you could run ten miles and fix a saddle than quote Dante Gabriel Rosetti. Because I had horses and I hate the Pre-Raphaelite poets.
It is possible, however, that I may have taken things a little too far.
Yesterday was the 15th anniversary of my dalliance with Mr Brammers (we live in sin, but quite conventionally so). I had suggested we might go out somewhere and held a vague hope that he could have organised such a thing, perhaps even with a small token of affection, such as a book, or an orange-inked pen. When I staggered in late from work after 7, I half-hoped to be bundled back out the door on an Adventure. Instead, he was playing internet spaceships in his underwear.
Which is fine, he needs his relaxation time. So I suggested that I refresh myself and he come out as soon as he had finished this particular step in defending the galaxy and we head off to one of the many local eateries that can be relied on to provide good nosh without a booking. I had a little read, and a little sit-down, and by then it was 8pm. I popped my head back into the study, he apologised without looking around, his corps were in the middle of something complex and now was a bad time.
Being ever-resilient, I offered to go and gather foodstuffs for us from the local shops, which is how we ended up having fish and chips. I shared my salmon with the Monster cat, while Mr B shouted out that he would be out in a minute, they were nearly done. After completing my dinner, I returned to my book.
Some little time later, I noticed that he was quiet. Investigation revealed that he had gone for a little lie down. Obviously in preparation for significant efforts later in the evening, I assumed. Or ... as I was forced to conclude when he was still snoring at 1am and I had run out of things to knit, read, or comment about on the internet ... not.
So given it was Thursday, and hence bin night, I took the bins down for him (it's his job), had a shower and went to bed. Whereupon he threw an arm across my hips and snurfled something that may have been 'Luxembourg'.
Still, better than 15 years of bad poetry!
For most of you reading this will come as no surprise to hear, since although I don't mind the odd bit of romance, Satire, Rationalism, Pragmatism and Grumpy Old Haggisism are terms that will more readily spring to mind. And this is largely because you have never seen me.
Because the problem is: my inside and outside do not match. I look like a figure dropped out of an historical painting (thanks to genetics), and dress like someone from a children's book (thanks to a fashion sense grounded in comedy). To the casual observer, I look the sort of person who has a large gold-framed mirror, a fainting couch and a velvet-lined box filled with old billets-doux.
In the past, this caused me some issues, particularly with men. Indeed, when I was a young lass, there were several who sent unsolicited billets-doux and only ceased after the third or fourth returned with corrections, style annotations and a suggested reading list. By much dint of effort I was able to convince my general acquaintance that I was a woman of practical taste and that it was of far more interest to me whether you could run ten miles and fix a saddle than quote Dante Gabriel Rosetti. Because I had horses and I hate the Pre-Raphaelite poets.
It is possible, however, that I may have taken things a little too far.
Yesterday was the 15th anniversary of my dalliance with Mr Brammers (we live in sin, but quite conventionally so). I had suggested we might go out somewhere and held a vague hope that he could have organised such a thing, perhaps even with a small token of affection, such as a book, or an orange-inked pen. When I staggered in late from work after 7, I half-hoped to be bundled back out the door on an Adventure. Instead, he was playing internet spaceships in his underwear.
Which is fine, he needs his relaxation time. So I suggested that I refresh myself and he come out as soon as he had finished this particular step in defending the galaxy and we head off to one of the many local eateries that can be relied on to provide good nosh without a booking. I had a little read, and a little sit-down, and by then it was 8pm. I popped my head back into the study, he apologised without looking around, his corps were in the middle of something complex and now was a bad time.
Being ever-resilient, I offered to go and gather foodstuffs for us from the local shops, which is how we ended up having fish and chips. I shared my salmon with the Monster cat, while Mr B shouted out that he would be out in a minute, they were nearly done. After completing my dinner, I returned to my book.
Some little time later, I noticed that he was quiet. Investigation revealed that he had gone for a little lie down. Obviously in preparation for significant efforts later in the evening, I assumed. Or ... as I was forced to conclude when he was still snoring at 1am and I had run out of things to knit, read, or comment about on the internet ... not.
So given it was Thursday, and hence bin night, I took the bins down for him (it's his job), had a shower and went to bed. Whereupon he threw an arm across my hips and snurfled something that may have been 'Luxembourg'.
Still, better than 15 years of bad poetry!
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