Samhain, and Beshemoth salutes her ancestors by making their hair curl

Oddly, I can often wake up and just tell when it’s gonna be a happy, sunny, glorious, perfect day. Possibly because, despite the double-glazing, the thunder of rain outside is absent for once. And indeed, this morning was… quiet. So I got out of bed to check and screamed in agony.

Oh yeah, that’s right, I got injured last night, in a monumentally stupid and pathetic fashion, being lacerated along the gusset lines by my own sodding Halloween costume, and during the night the bits that are oozing blood have decided my pyjamas will function as some temporary skin. As soon as I moved, however, the pyjamas had other ideas. My, showering in hot water after that was so much more exciting than normal!

It might be a day for Not walking very far. Which is a shame, as it is the perfect day for being outside!

It was wierdly beautiful inside as well – the flat is just a trail of bits of tinfoil from where I was trying to cut myself free of the fabulous silver boots. Dear god, and that happened sober. Mind you, I had barely anything to drink while I was out because I was too chicken to walk the length of the bowling club to the bar in that outfit, well, not more than thrice, so it would have been done sober when I came in too.

In lieu of anything better, and also acutely aware that today is Not the perfect day for wearing underwear, I hobbled rather self-consciously to LIDL, trusty cheap-arse retail outlet and only a mile’s round trip, too.

Once there, I had a heartstopping moment of No Cashcard (oh god oh god I moved it last night as part of a cunning anti-mugging initiative – obviously my cunning last night was just completely sub-par – and where did I move it to? And how much money do we have left from last night? Not quite enough, is my guess!) But the cashcard showed up in a dark recess of my wallet. Thus, sure enough, the cash would then have covered it after all. Ha.

Well, so that was the Supplies brought in, at least. And I made some veggie curry with homegrown veg, chucked all the homegrown fresh coriander in it, and finished the draught excluder and lay it along my windowsill to keep out draughts. Well, some of em. One room down, several to go! But I was still not feeling particularly clever, or macho; I guess sewing and cooking all day will do that. Plus, the feeling like a hot branding iron’s being applied somewhere intimate whenever you move might do that too. So I tried to think of something moderately macho that could be achieved with as little movement as possible.

I know! The new hoover is still in its box. The new hoover is ferociously cheap, possibly because you have to screw all these mad plastic shapes together to create a working hoover – it has screws and diagrams and everything! Well, the motor is already screwed together, but still. I looked at the bits I had strewn across the sunny spare bedroom and felt a tidal-wave of happiness as I realised I was looking at Adult Lego. So I sat in the sunshine, in my freshly-scrubbed-down spare room, and put it all together and highly satisfying it was too.

And then, after I was done, I had a functional Machine to play with! One with lots of warnings all over it, saying Warning, This Is A Very Powerful Machine! If you leave it going on lino or a parquet floor, it will sand right through the damn thing and set off to terrorise your downstairs neighbours! Okay, I’m paraphrasing that last part about the neighbours, but still! I had put together an officially Very Powerful Machine and it worked and everything.

And then I used it to hoover the floors. Which was ever so slightly anti-climatic, but hell, it is what I shelled out money to achieve.

God, I love modern life; everything is Play, you don’t have to do anything as if your life depended on it. Well, sometimes. But very rarely, and it’s usually nipping out of the way of a bus.

And on that note, the gloaming is falling and it is time to whip out the portable altar and celebrate the day when the veils are thin and salute the powers that be and my ancestors. With homemade strawberry cider* and apples** and candles***.

*(Made from a kit)

**(Bought from LIDL)

***(Cheap, synthetic)

Yup, I bet my ancestors would be soooo proud of me right now. Let’s face it – the very last generation up the line aren’t any too proud of anything they know of me – and that’s only the stuff they know about. If the dead see everything, I’m stuffed, not least because of religious differences. And although it would appear at first glance that my immediate ancestors could be as clueless as I am, the family got this far somehow, right? We start getting back into People Who Lived Through The Blitz, let alone People Who Had To Dye Their Own Clothes With Woad (I have no idea what Woad even looks like in its native state. It took me two tries to spell it right and I’m still not convinced), and I suspect the afterlife, should I be unfortunate to get one where just everyone hangs out together, will mainly consist of me getting slapped for the first decade.

Note to self: work on those biceps. Maybe there’s nothing in the Rules that says you have to put up with it.

Despite these thoughts and the sense of impending doom that comes from publicly mocking a tradition and ritual I actually take quite seriously (especially on the threat of post-mortem slapping), I was imbued with a powerful sense of peace and tranquility tonight.

Possibly because, wow, I now seem to have four rooms to hang out in, as well as the kitchen and bathroom – my room, the name of which seems a bit superfluous now, because they are all mine – the lounge, the spare room and, er, the spare spare room. Seriously, I can only be in one room at a time, what the hell am I supposed to do with all this?

While I hope this is a state of affairs that will eventually end in someone amicable and luverly (and who is solvent and pays by direct debit) taking possession of one of these, in the meantime, it might be worth changing the names of some of em.

And it might be worth jackbooting it round the place with cheap fizz, marvelling at my utter embarrassment of riches, why not.

So I did, and it was an excellent way to end a weekend.

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About beshemoth

Mainly making art, making wine, writing and gardening. Having a life only as the above allows.
This entry was posted in idiotic injuries, occasionally observant, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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