Hands up, who remembers Snorgle? She's all of fifteen months old now, and as of a week ago she has a baby brother.
I've named him Sproglet. Sprog for short. He doesn't have a bib yet, but maybe he can share his sister's, because allegedly he snorgles more than she ever did.
I feel it's important, you see, that they have equal and matching names.
Snorgle hugs the cats the same way, only they don't always stay so obligingly still for her.
Out and about today, and I came across this framed photo for sale. (Excuse the crappy mobile-phoneness of the photo, not to mention the reflections in the shopfront window.)
That's right, the grounded Pasha Bulker, gone though she may be, is now art.
For the paltry sum of … er, whatever they're asking, I didn't actually get a chance to look, whatever, that's not the point — for a paltry sum you can hang a picture of a grounded coal ship on your wall.
Although, to be fair, it's a pretty good picture.
And, to be doubly fair, I'd far rather hang a picture of the grounded ship on my wall than hang the 19 tonne shard of discarded rudder, ripped off during the un-grounding, in the town centre. No, I'm not joking.
This is Max. He's hungry.
Don't be fooled by the apparent lassitude. He's a ninja. Any attempt to approach the kitchen must be done in company of Max. Any attempt to use the chopping board and knives invariably produces the heavy-lidded gaze and tail-twitching behaviour designed to induce teeny birdies to come down and play… Any attempt to ignore him while cutting up meat results in Max using my leg as a climbing post. (Luckily, I mostly wear jeans, and he's learnt, through prodigious applications of water spray, to play gentle.)
Well, this weekend, I relented. I did the unthinkable, and provided a full bowl of dry food. An unemptiable bowl of dry food. Max can snack at will. Max is no longer entirely dependent upon me for meals. (Max's expression as I ladled scoop after scoop of dry food into this enormous bowl was a study of excitement turning to slow-dawning horror.)
Maximus Stomachus has spent the past 36 hours gorging snacking. In between snacks, he trudges around the house with a mournful air, a fierce craving for water, and a distended stomach. Maximus Stomachus is not a quick learner.
I, however, have now had two entire nights of uninterrupted sleep. I am delirious, I am drunk, with sleep. I am ridiculously enthusiastic over trivial matters. I am hoping Maximus Gluttonus learns not to gorge so that this arrangement can continue, and I can sleep the blessed sleep of those who have not procreated.
A day at the baby mines always brings a surprise or two. This time it was the gentleman ringing up to donate his eggs.
No, I am not joking. Neither, I believe, was he.
O.O
[poll=4]
Well, there's a week I am more than glad to leave in my wake. Coffins should be longer than 60cm. Much, much longer. Also, inquests may provide closure, but only in a world where perfect closure is possible, which this is not.
Here's to next week being more fun to live through.
To round the week off with something humorous, my cat staged a violent attack on the lucky bamboo plant. At midnight (which is always a most hilarious time, I find). The bamboo lived up to its name and survived; its vase was not so lucky. Which, I must say, makes me wonder: if the lucky bamboo is supposed to provide me and my house with good feng shui propoerties, but its good feng shui field doesn't even extend out so far as its vase, what the hell kind of rip-off scheme is this? I could walk around with lucky bamboo pinned to me, or growing in my hair perhaps (can't get closer than that!), but … you know. Might look a bit weird. Probably violates the dress code of all the fancy places.
I have repotted the lucky bamboo. Clearly, despite being dubious about the alleged luckiness field, I am still fearful of any bad-luck field which might result from giving up on the lucky bamboo. Besides, it's the only plant I've ever managed to not only not kill, but keep kinda green.
I have also armed myself with a spray bottle, to protect the lucky bamboo against future hate play crimes. A friend recommended a solution three parts white wine vinegar to one part water as most effective, since the cat would hate getting wet and would then also hate the taste of cleaning himself. Double punishment to drive home the point. I went with only water, however. You see, much as I like my cat, I'm well aware of the fact that no one will ever accuse him of higher intellect. If it doesn't happen at the same nanosecond, it's not connected. All he will connect the vinegar taste to is cleaning himself, and I don't want to punish him for being clean. Then I'd have a filthy cat who's naughty.
I always maintained if it was painful to be stupid, we'd have a lot less stupidity in the world. Turns out, as my cat has taught me, it is painful — but only for those around the stupid. We should institute a procedure whereby forehead-smacks are mandatory when one is displaying stupidity. It should cut down on a lot of troubles, not to mention pent frustrations.
Also, Doctor Who? Please, please tell me this Family of Blood malarky is more than just a convenient way for the writers to strand the Doctor in early 20th century Britain and have him fall in love with a human. Who isn't Martha — cue whine from Martha. Because I'm quite tired of the Doctor / love story being all this and the last series were about. Less Britain, please, and more action — and please, stop already wtih the lovesick companion. I was looking forward to the introduction of Martha, in the hopes we would see the end of pining. Apparently, no luck there. Rose at least had an entire season to be all chutzpah before she turned into sappy clingy jealous icky girly girl. Martha didn't even get an entire episode before she started on with the clinging and the whinging. Don't get me wrong, romantic subplots are fine. But this is Doctor Who! There's aliens to be vanquished, for crying out loud! Keep it as a subplot, kthxbai.
Drafting, drafting, drafting, and I look up to find I have quite literally just written the words "You have no power over me."
Ha!
Oh, yes, they're staying. They amuse me too much to cut them. I'll cut them in a later draft. It'll be a nice surprise, when I'm revising, to find a laugh buried in the script.
Blogging, for the most part, is not a troublesome activity. I'm not the world's most open or gregarious blogger, and I keep my, my friends' and my family's private lives just that, private.
The problem always arises when a friend or family member is suffering. It takes up much of my thoughts and energy and yet, out of issues of privacy and delicacy, I can't talk about it on the blog. At times like those, it also feels like a betrayal if I talk about anything else, as if I'm commenting somehow by eliding their private life. Also, it's just damn tricky to think of anything to say when the only thing I've been thinking about, I can't talk about.
All of which is very elusive, isn't it? Anyway, the point is, I've been a little silent of late. A friend recently suffered a death in her family. Given that this particular death was in utero, 39 weeks in utero to be precise, it's hit everyone pretty hard, and turned not a few worlds upside down.
The writing has been … scraping along progressing. I'm not sure if it's the scads of life issues, or the novel, but this particular beast apparently does not want to be written. I have reverted to the scattershot process almost continuously now, and it's tricky, putting words down and knowing I'm just writing a mass of inconsistencies that will need bucketloads of fixing. But words on paper can be fixed; the same cannot be said for words in my head.
So, yes, I'm still here, and I haven't forgotten the blog. I'm just prioritising my energies at the moment. I'll be back soon.
As is perhaps natural enough in all those who chose to pursue something artistic, I have at various times given serious thought to money. How much of it I have (never enough), how much more of it I'd like, how much I need to survive without subsisting on cat food, now and in the future… 
It's a tricky one. Whenever I can pull it off, I manage to go months on end without worrying about money. I apparently have one of those brains that never shuts up, however, which means ultimately I never escape for long.
So, a poll. Because as Tess points out, there has not been enough polling on this blog.
[poll=3]
Me, I'm a constant worrier. If it's not money, it'll be something else. Sometimes, I even manage to harness my worrying for the powers of good, and put them to use gnawing over the latest work in progress. The world is full of teeny, tiny miracles after all.
Overheard at work today:
Patient's mother: Is it…? It's raining.
Patient's father: No, I don't think so.
Patient's mother, standing and wandering to the window: Oh. No, it isn't. Funny, I thought it was.
(Pause)
Patient's mother: There must be moisture in the air. That I can see.
Me: 