Whining about sitting around whining!
Whoops, that last one got a bit off-topic. Mind you, that is exactly what my ‘Thank Every God, Now I Will Not Crack Up!’ week off promptly did too. I had so many plans for this week – I was gonna harvest the whole allotment and put in the autumn stuff (or what autumn stuff has not drowned while waiting for the tatties to get ready; thanks, amazing rain!) I was gonna devote each day to doing a different drawing, I was gonna start new vats of homebrew with the harvest and bottle off the old ones, I was gonna gut out the flat, I was gonna spend five hours a day on the Sums; and realistically there was no way in hell all of this was going to happen. Not least because the rain is not finished yet.
Instead, pretty much none of it happened. I spent the first five days of my week off pretty much face-down on my bed, because I am either suffering some sort of thyroid problem, or the onset of zombiedom, or merely have suddenly become really old all at once. I did read a few thousand words of print, because it was pretty much all I felt capable of, but it wasn’t that enjoyable because
a) dammit! Precious time, that can never be regained, and I sit here wasting it like a fool, and if I don’t watch out I will never amount to anything [that ship has sailed – Ed] and,
b) I had one thing I wanted from your tenth-and-final book, Steven Erikson, one thing, and you disappointed me. Okay granted you heroically managed to kill off slightly fewer people than usual, but I spent nine books waiting for an actual resolution to the thing with Icarium and I do not call that a resolution. Although I suppose this one did not make me cry, which proves I’m not coming down with a cold, if nothing else. (Oh look, whining about that has wasted slightly more time, how ‘ironic’).
However, there was a Thing Wot Got Done – the boiler has had a wee leak of late and the pilot light seems a bit dubious about doing its job, so last week I had called what seemed a reliable company to send someone round. You know, before it broke in a messy and expensive fashion. Several hundred pounds later (which I have to confess was a complete surprise) the guy was clocking off at five like he’d be torn apart by hellhounds if he stayed any later.
And lo, right after that, the thing broke completely. Be careful how you phrase everything.
I did manage to get out to the pub for some pints with a mate, and it was a very good night, hurrah, but other than that: scenes of amazing rock’n’roll-ness: zero (mainly due to a cashflow problem I hadn’t forseen); scenes of amazing debauchery: zero; nights spent hunched over a laptop writing really bad prose* till dawn: zero, massively gutted-out flats: zero.
*(I also read several chapter-by-chapter reviews of Fifty Shades of Grey. I’m not saying it’s not hot, I am saying that really bad prose seems to sell, so by crikey I could be in there! Oh no wait, not if I don’t actually write any.)
Going out and getting some fresh air!
Oh no wait – massively-gutted out flats: one! Cos I went over to the Bossman’s bit and helped move his colossal collection of lego into storage and then gutted out his flat like anything, for which I received the transport costs of getting there, so it’s win-win, woo! Or something. No really, it made me feel like dramatically less of a waste of skin, so it was good.
Also, he read over the job application form for me, cos ha ha, two weeks I had, to get that in, and I nearly missed the deadline because sure as eggs*, if I am in a situation where it is important that I bang on about how awesome I am in a convincing manner, I am suddenly the last person on earth to be convinced of it. Anyway! It is Done, and therefore I am slightly less of a waste of skin, because I did not find a really sweet job and just sit about on my arse whining that I would never get it – no! I went out and proved that. So that’s someone told! Possibly me. Anyway.
*(I am not actually sure what it is that’s sure about eggs. Or was it apples? I’m not sure about that either, come to think of it.)
On Saturday I got driven back home, and we went up the Allittlement and the Bossman hung my fake wasp nest in a tree (to stop the wasps spoiling the plums that are quite blatantly on my side of the fence, thanks to the gales, but which will guaranteed be ruined by the rain. Like the strawberries were and the rasps will be and the blackberries were last year, oh my yes). And he watered the jungle that has sprung up in the greenhouse and finally, something was worth harvesting, although sadly he was all, Come see your crop of sex toys!* and then we discovered a small child was within earshot, whoops. (It asked me what I was going to do with them, and I was all, er… soup?)
*(or, courgettes, to normal people)
Traditional Seaside Entertainment!
And then we went to Ayr for the Rastlin’, woo! And had fish and chips first, although not on the beach cos it was hella windy on the beach (I always forget this part). It was Family-Friendly Rastlin’, which I have not seen before, which meant among other things they kept the lights on and thus had to be slightly smarter with the choreography, and also slightly more creative with the banter (no chants of ‘Cuntosaurus’, for instance). For instance, in the first fight, the Designated Bad-guy made his boo-able status quite plain by announcing that ‘Ayr is a big pile of rubbish’, and was visibly stunned when he got quite a concerted round of applause for it.
I have to say, the refs at the Ayr Rastlin’ are a marked improvement on the hammy performances by the refs at ICW. Sorry ICW refs, but there was much more of an air of realism about this one, which was actually kinda cool. Even though Mikey Whiplash was fighting without any makeup or corsetry or frocks or anything, which made it look like he’d had a sleep-in as disastrous as my one last week, bolted into the shower and arrived for a four-way match in his underwear. (Even though they all fight in their underwear. It was just odd. Even odder than seeing Lionheart slinking around Organising things, in a mushroom-coloured suit, rather than tearing up the ring. In fact, lots of cross-over here – most of the wee sidekicks from ICW are main players here, which was cool.)
And the title match between AJ Stiles and Noam Dar was superbly done, some killer moves, nice variation in pace and mood, the only slight problem being Noam Dar’s sodding outfit – I suspected he might be in trouble with that. and sure enough his stockings kept falling down all evening. There’s nothing ruins the illusion of a man writhing in agony after his back’s been supposedly smashed like him pulling his stockings up ‘subtly’ while he’s at it. Every damn time.
Playing at Lumberjacks!
Since the Bossman was driving, we got a nice early night without having to piss about with Scotrail, yay! And then on Sunday, we were straight back down the coast road again because my Wee Bro is still owed a weekend of labour, and although I bitterly regretted having not done one tenth of what I want to the Allittlement, a debt is a debt. Fortunately, the forecast was for rain in Ayrshire, and sun in Glasgow, hurrah for a maritime climate, so we figured we’d flee as soon as the heavens opened. Which they did. On Glasgow. So we might as well stay and lumberjack up a storm, right?
I enjoyed it. I hope the Bossman did – having done his back, he got stuck with woodchipper duty (hence, I was the one who dug all the potatoes yesterday. I cannot complain – on our first date, after he brought a bouquet of flowers I could have sat down and hid behind, and a magnum of ferociously-priced wine that one has to go to a Special Shop to get (and not Threshers, apparently) I panicked and took him down the Allittlement and made him dig potatoes in the hot sun all day. Astonishingly, he came back.
And just like that, suddenly it is one sleep till Monday! And a bad sleep it will be, I have no doubt about it!
And because me and the Bossman are the world’s most pathetic psychic twins ever, I have done my sodding back.