amygdala

New blog

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 12:47:08 GMT

New blog coming soon!
Mail or memo me (laura_ashley on IC; fornix on alt.com) for the url :-)
Will also post link on my profiles when it's up and chatting
Love you all and thanks for reading the limbicslut xxx

Scatter

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 00:08:05 GMT

As we arrived at fukk last night, one of my associates brought up the topic of how innocent items can carry secret signs of the weekend's adventures with them into the week, imparting a glow of pleasure into the grind.

Looking around the flat now as I tumble books and papers into their Monday pile, groaning at the thought of what I need to get through in the next few days, I can't help grinning at the spill of pearls all over the carpet. Yes, the unbreakable M&S insignia of decorum has finally taken one yank too many.

Perhaps I will scoop up a handful and roll them across the path of anyone who seems to need an extra sparkle in their week, or just wantonly scatter them in random places.

To sleep now, dreaming of bearded cat ladies and other fukk extraordinaires. A few more hours of rest to heal the scratches on my back and savour flashes of topping glee and bottoming swirl before the thunk of paper and the pinging emails get their turn.

Have a gorgeous week everybody - don't forget to look out for escaped fake pearls skittering around your heels.

NEW PAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 22:31:42 GMT

Left the conference early and got back into London around 8. Couldn't wait til the morning when Lesbians & Van arrive, so just grabbed random kitchen, bathroom and sleeping stuff and rammed into bags as much as I could carry.

Music banging away upstairs as usual, it has become almost constant lately. Staggered towards the Womble line wearing 2 rucksacks 1 holdall and a sports bag, noticing a post-Carnival buzz with more people out than usual on West Green Road. But Carnival was last weekend....

"What was it?" calls a bloke from outside the all night barbers. "Oh, a stabbing" responds a woman across the road, in similar tone of voice employed for, say, "oh, the ice cream van".

It's dead quiet and there's nobody around on the close, I don't meet or even hear any neighbours on my way up to, oh yes, the Top Floor. No more listening to another person's tunes, rehearsals, footsteps, bed creaking, slashing, talking, or mysterious explosive juddering in winter a bit like a time machine stuck between gears.

Quiet, that is, except for the TRAINS! Yes, I am living almost directly over the track and there is an impressive shudder effect when the fast heavy goods trains go by. I have always had an obsession with goods trains and our new close relationship will certainly be interesting. But in between the trains, which being the Womble are about one every three millennia, it is so spookily quiet you can hear the fridge thinking.

Next step is to get a feng shui person round to make sure that the happy space feeling continues - have been converted to the hippy stuff.

I will miss E and the flat, but it feels good to know I can tuck into a bacon sandwich or a hearty cock at any time of day or night I please. And have friends to stay - please come visit!

More interweb dating peotry

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 22:39:44 GMT

Hi, I am ch arif and father of two daughters. I purely believe in serve and love humanity in every circumstances.80%friend and 20%enemy.comprising, realistic, belongs to ahmadyyia religion, non-extremist very broad minded but not slapdash and self-seeking. Living under the unfathomable water of poverty. Self purigation is my favorite practice. You have really very great significance in my eyes.

The savannah

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 12:40:58 GMT

I went to a normal club last night, where people kept their clothes on and didn't fuck or thwack each other. Couldn't get enough of staring them - like animals in a special sanctuary, they seemed protected and wistfully forgetful of the savannah / a solid fisting.

We drank dusty tasting wine by the half pint and wondered where in the jungle the djs had got to, our nostril hairs jumping from the bass. I biked home (quaking a bit through Dalston in case of Reavers), having only stepped out in the afternoon to catch Futurism before it finished.

Surrounded once again by packing boxes and unfinished chapter edits, eating strange cupboard remnant meals and bracing myself for September with its multiple demands, and no doubt further cunt & soul adventures.

Whhooosh

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 23:24:35 GMT

Mmm, another good weekend, this time involving an excessive amount of cycling and hot pork.

From Central London we went through various Claphams and Tootings which seemed to take forever and involved a small monsoon. Dried my socks out under the hand drier of a very nice italian cafe in Rose Hill. Eventually we made it out of London through Sutton and onto a dual carriageway going uphill. Already exhausted and chilly from the on and off showers, but too stubborn to admit it.

Steve was making lots of encouraging noises while secretly asking himself why he had agreed to accompany me (on borrowed bike with, as it turned out, only 1 working gear), him on deluxe Dawes touring machine, all the way to deepest Sussex.

Finally got off the A road, passing over the M25 (almost fatally hypnotising) and swooshing down a steep road called Pebble Hill that we didn't fancy much for the return journey. From there to Horsham it got steadily more scenic. Supermarket swoop for champagne. And then the really gorgeous part of the ride, through villages to our destination about 10 miles north of Worthing.

We'd left King's Cross at 12noon and arrived in the pub at 9pm. Not one for the record breakers... But so worth it for the glee of seeing our friend who has given cancer a royal kick up the arse over the past 2 years and was celebrating his birthday with a mini-festival at his new house.

Steve pitched the tent in a badgers sett, as far away as possible from small people and the sound system.

Turned out to be more of a family oriented occasion than we'd come to expect from our host in years gone by, with less arsefucking over bales of hay and more listening to requests from small people begging to keep their pants on for a turn in the miniature swimming pool. They have a lot of pride, or perhaps foreknowledge that naked photos will emerge to damage future social wellbeing.

One very pretty girl about 8 years old did the most perfect eye-rolling sweep past Steve on her way to the dancefloor, cutting him deader than a dodo. I guess she has to get a lot of practice in for the years ahead.

On the principle of tribal living I had thought it would make sense to place children in a mass, thereby enabling grownups to chill out and take turns at stopping them from drowning. But it only meant they found more ways to get mucky / imperilled / distressed, thereby causing infinitely more childcare duties to arise. So I am revising my theories on the matter.

Biking home was less rainy and much faster, we found more gorgeous lanes and fewer nasty fast roads, and made it back into London around 6, having left soon after 11. The endorphins were a real rush and I am happy that me and Steve have reconnected properly, 17 years into a friendship that's involved being unable to communicate at times. I guess the closest friendships can sometimes be the most distant or edgy ones, but we are a big part of each other's lives even when we don't have a proper conversation for months on end.

Peace and tamarind

Tue, 18 Aug 2009 01:42:27 GMT

Mm-mn. Moment of peace. Room tidied from post-writing pants / books / plates / dildos all tangled up (fear I would not pass astronaut's tidiness test). Neil Halstead soul soothing. Utter silence from upstairs, blissful absence of somebody else's bass waves bumbling through every cell of my body.

Time is going slooooowly. Mischief does not return from hols for another six trillion years, and I am champing to move into my new flat (can it be done without actually packing though). There's a secret pleasure in missing him too, it brings out the savour of each ingredient.

And it's good to take some time to foster other energy sources, both humanoid and (for instance) curry based. The Pixie has just introduced me to Jai Krishna where you can get sixteen dishes for about fourpence. Have spent the last five hours lolling in a tamarind haze, having tried to consume my own weight in deep fried mystery vegetables and a particularly delicious pumpkin curry. Plus something that was kind of a cross between sugar puffs and bombay mix, is bound to make for interesting tasting pee.

Best of all there's another month til teaching starts again. I may even have time to plan my courses properly before walking into the classroom this year, whether that will improve quality or reduce the number of irrelevant vampire digressions remains to be seen. Note to self: delete PORN from laptop before taking it onto campus, a seasonal ritual for autumn.

Thank you for my twirl :-)

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 12:16:02 GMT

Oh it feels SO good to have a proper night's sleep, like a big drink of water or diving down very deep and coming back up with a pearl.

Heading for Crimson last night I felt slightly unfit for human consumption. But the lure of certain long unseen Northern persons got me out of the house. It was hard at first to compute being at Hidden without all the gay cock waggling free - also the snack shack was closed - much gazing wistfully in the direction of chips and tea.

A good night though, no attitude and a pleasing array of suspects from across the tg subversion antichrist etc etc spectrum and even smd which was very gratifying. A lot of smiling and plenty of thwacks / yelps / whooshing of gun cotton.

A big thank you to S for blindfolding me on arrival and strapping me into the twirling around machine. All the lurking tension from flat hunting, chapter editing and heart hunger has now been yanked out through my hair and stroked / slapped away. Such a wonderful feeling.

Ready now to enjoy a proper day off. Our broadband has broken so I can't look at work email. The chapter edits are done and I have lost 13,000 words from the manuscript - tis now a lean mean astronomy abusing machine. And there are more Northerners rattling around the metropolis, fresh from Alpine adventures.

Off out now to assemble at the science museum where I can feed my anniversarial astronaut obsession. I still think there must be a way to combine kinkery with elements of space travel training. Perhaps ESA can be persuaded to lend us some of their gear for a space themed night of pervery...

Ten times harder

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 23:33:28 GMT

Oooossshhh. Where's a person to give a girl a sound spanking or a boob full of needles when she needs it? It has been a tense few days in terms of seeking a new pad & other matters and though I've managed to keep writing (8,500 words deleted - dodgy chapter rewritten - introduction done & redone - argument getting tighter - two chapters left to edit - just call me the Draft Two Machine) & chugging along I am really feeling the need for a big sparkling release of endorphins and either a proper howl or a fluffinated roam around the outer reaches.

When I get rageous these days it comes ten times harder. Because I'm ten times prouder. My blood runs ten times brighter. Feel every emotion ten times purer. It can get scary when my heart is crestfallen and something dark turns in on itself, rocking lonely anger like a snake paralysing itself to spite the cosmos that made it. Reach for a cigarette a blade, trusty ambassadors to the world next door. But I would rather feel raw like this than go back to the days when emotions were dull impressions through a wax blanket, nothing much got through to me in automaton world.

So your heart can't have everything it wants. Not all at once anyway. Well that's ok, I'd probably explode from happiness. There's a lot of good stuff it does have and the bastard greedy snake is not getting a fangfest in this time.

Poly

Thu, 06 Aug 2009 23:44:21 GMT

Can't believe how good it feels to have proper conversations about poly with the people I love. To know that what I need from a relationship, and what they need, isn't necessarily going to hurt anybody, could even generate extra happiness, keep all of us human, become part of our everyday lives.

To be able to say the name of my lover's primary partner, not to have to keep two worlds conceptually hidden from each other. One day, who knows, we might even meet! A few months ago that was a prospect that only arose in strange and restless dreams.

To be able to talk about entering on a new relationship without having to keep the truth about how I feel about another person under wraps, in case it scares them off, in case I lose the chance to make something amazing happen.

I've been calling myself poly for 2 years, but only now am I getting the chance to practise it. I know it's not going to be any easier than monogamy, will throw up its own challenges. But my heart is singing at the chance to finally live openly in a way that makes me more alive with each person I see - not just lovers but my friends, family and at work too.

Why

Sat, 01 Aug 2009 22:01:21 GMT

I'm lying here in bed, with every comfort imaginable: socks to keep my feet warm, duvet, two pillows, glass of water on the table, ear plugs, any book or music to hand.

So why does a part of me suddenly dare, only now, tiptoe back in my mind to that room? Stare at the spot and lie down in the place I've not been able to contemplate without a shadow shiver while stretching back these past 48 hours into freedom, hedonism, a lover's skin, my friends.

And why does it crave to be back there: lying wrapped in a blanket on a plastic mat on a dustsheet on the tiled floor, chain from my neck to the wall, towel under my head? Shoulder and hip joints crunched. Leaping my fingers to my ears each time the church clock strikes, so as not to be taunted by the inching day or night - I can't tell which, because all chinks of daylight have been blacked out from this room and the lamp is permanently on. Paused, absorbing, spinning, poised between each bereft release and the next steeling entrance.

After barely being able to look at the blood piss drool cum tear stained sheet as I raced back gleeful and super charged into the light, what part of me now wants to slink out into the corridor where my laundry pile lies, kick it out and curl up on the floor again?

I don't want to forget or deny a second of what passed in there. Perhaps the best way to keep those rare jagged memories real is to sew their fragments back into the texture of my everyday life. Tough questions, alert senses, knowing when to say I don't have anything left to prove.

Cunnilingus in North Korea

Mon, 04 May 2009 14:58:06 GMT

Totally loving Yhchang...

Choose

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 23:45:25 GMT

Dizzy Spring time. After weeks on end of feeling slightly wrong at the edges, and not very me inside for days on end, something seems to have clicked. Energies back in alignment. Accepting what I need and telling people - at work and in relationships - has definitely helped me to stop feeling like a frozen blackberry in a blender. Resolve to banish ostrich habit of a lifetime, for it lays eggs that whisper tales of self-crapness.

Stopping several times a day to repeat the words of David Foster Wallace: choose what you worship. To notice wind, air, breath, voice, looking for things to replace the gods of money, body, power.

On Friday a funeral, very sad and mysterious occasion, and on Sunday I learn that I'm going to be an Aunt. This I feel is an extremely important role! I am feeling more Auntish by the minute, practising Auntly poses and so forth.

Realising that it is OK to get close with people again, not worrying about where it will all end up. Getting back to work on a creative project, a seven minute piece based on materials collected over 2 years ago. Enjoying the gradual discovery of how it will turn out, and looking forward to having an audience.

Learning that I can give - to students, lovers and family - without losing anything. And that extraordinary feats are possible... even green eye shadow...

[Micro-genre of D/s called going shopping in Superdrug: Him (to store assistant): 'Can you tell us where the very cheap blusher is?' Store assistant (to me): you're looking for cheap blusher? Him (to store assistant): 'Yes that's right, the kind that looks vulnerable and asking for trouble'. Store assistant: 'here you are' (points to previously invisible stand) Me: 'Ooh look, 3 for a fiver...']

Furballs

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 14:50:01 GMT

Pltchknraow! Horrid couple of weeks where stress and depression seized hold of my throat and belly and turned me into a most unhappy person :-(

A week of munching grass, dozing in sunbeams and psychic retching appear to have done the trick however. Now feeling a lot more kittenly.

Using the words of David Foster Wallace to keep on track as I wobble back into the melee. (Read more)

In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is no such thing as atheism. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship - be it JC or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some intangible set of ethical principles - is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things - if they are where you tap real meaning in life - then you will never have enough. Never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you. ... Worship power - you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart - you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out.

The insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful; it is that they are unconscious. They are default settings. They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing. And the world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the world of men and money and power hums along quite nicely on the fuel of fear and contempt and frustration and craving and the worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. ... The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the "rat race" - the constant gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing.

I burn too much

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 22:07:38 GMT

My cunt burns, my heart burns, my kidneys burn, my soul burns, my eyes burn, my mind burns.

Standing on the bus I hold the little yellow tube and I am a laughing conflagration.

Everybody notices. Nobody sees.

I have my own personal fire fighting service. I am the Queen of Asbestos, I am a video for rolling colleagues up in blankets and selecting the required type of foam. I am mains operated smoke alarms, I am switching off the electric blanket, I am being tested next Wednesday between 10 and 11am. I am breaking the panel.

I am spontaneous. I am licking you, curling up your papers and blistering your paint. I am going to eat you and your children and not know the difference. I have started in the kitchen, the bedroom, the cellar, the attic and the garden. I am tearing through tunnels, melting escalators and feasting on fluff. I am too late to dial 999.

Make me tallow, give me bees wax and the fat of sperm whales. Feed me through pipes, meter me, redeem me from the filament with perfectly symmetrical black cakes. Lay me wood and newspaper, give me a good draught, salute me with crumpets marshmallows and the frozen soles of your feet.

Hurl yourself into me, hurl yourself away. You cannot win, it is too late, I will always be too much and not enough.

You asked for it, you asked me for a light.

Smoulder

Sun, 22 Mar 2009 00:25:54 GMT

Flat hunting ... the more I see, the pickier I get.

Have been looking in Walthamstow, where places of a miraculous cheapness can be found, though the Pixie had a fit of horrors at the very mention. I only lived there until aged 2, so am not qualified to pass judgement on E17, but perhaps it hasn't changed as much as some places since the 70s. The agent assured me that Islington, for instance, used to be a right dump and extremely cheap (drifts off into daydream of lush open-plan Angel apartment, with servants).

If I could choose to live anywhere from the 70s though, it would be the bedroom occupied by Kelvin in Solaris. They are exactly the kind of chairs from which it would be ideal to commune with alien life forms and generally plot the breeding of a supreme race - though the mattress looks a bit thin (and one might do without the indestructible exes, dredged from the storehouse of unconscious regret and forged from neutrinos. Although, come to think of it, what a boon in a playmate - to be shredded and feel all the pain, yet not be left with any awkward scars to conceal from family and work).

Crouch End may beckon, if a co-tenant can be found with whom to defray the rent / compulsory organic scrambled quail's eggs for breakfast each day. In truth I love it just where I am ... now that I've learned to skitter about looking less of a tourist, and have fathomed their special version of the highway code (eg, speeding up at zebra crossings so as to get past before foolhardy pedestrian even thinks of setting foot in the road).

But the lesbian separationist flatmate is cramping my intake of cock (even men in dresses aren't allowed, which I call unfair). Plus, the guy upstairs has a long way to go before he makes it big on the trance scene, and in the meantime his efforts are interfering with my requisite 14 hours of sleep a night. Something must be done! A shuttle like Inara's would be ideal. Plus, ooh, all that smouldering tension with Cap'n. Any offers?

Grrrrrrrrr-sob-grin-hmmmm?

Tue, 17 Mar 2009 00:04:53 GMT

Mood swings, Hnymph!

Am getting them with a vengeance at the moment. Accompanied by compelling desire to smoke, even though after ten months of suspension (half a nasty tailor-made after December's Antichrist not counting) the tobacco will only make me go all pale and shaky.

A friend once said she'd given up when she suddenly realised that smoking was a socially acceptable form of self harm. But the thing about self harm is that it works! ... a little magic bullet to dispel the amassed biting nibbling pecking forces.

When I was taking group therapy, the only person who could understand that was the secret cross dresser. Putting on girly gear made everything ok for him, all the demands and problems melted away in that moment. I don't know if it was even about sexuality for him, perhaps more to do with the relief of regaining control over body boundaries.

I never got to be a very deep or regular cutter, but the sublime clarity of that moment, when tears coalesced into a red line and the tension in the back of my neck was lifted, was magical. The last time I got into it was just before I stumbled into worlds kinkious, and so long as there are kindly people to physically whack and mentally whip me I don't think I'll need to cut again. But oh, I'm loving the idea of a roll-up so much...

Fancy a pint?

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 23:51:56 GMT

This photo must have been taken quite a while ago, as it's looking a lot murkier and less, um, shiny these days.

Flames and sparks

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 22:41:32 GMT

Have drifted into something of a limbo lately, wondering about my cosmic purposes and whether I'm scampering along the right geodesics to fulfil them.

Continued kinkious adventures are showing me who I can be. Not living in the town where I grew up is definitely helping - I feel more relaxed and happy in my North London basket than anywhere I've lived before.

But knowing I can do things that used to seem impossible makes me think I should be doing ALL of them, right now. It feels like I've discovered helium - and am sitting on the floor doing chipmunk voices instead of building Suns.

I suspect the universe may be constipated at the moment - everyone I know seems to be in a slightly wandering place. Perhaps we should turn off all the lights and carry candles everywhere. When the electric glare comes back up we might find some new paths have emerged.

Flame, fire, potlatch (Bataille's version, orgy of irrecuperable loss).

I've had fire-tending assistance and sparks from various directions this week, hurrah, and am feeling ready for new kinds of rumpus. Antichrist last night was a good reminder of bodies, imagination and conviviality coming together (also cider, ow, my head this morning).

A beautiful woman swinging by hooks under her skin with sheerest glee; a Spike-a-like, a Cardinal and a red-and-black kitty; very busy dungeon with willing bottoms for the whacking; arms disappearing up arses and breakouts of mass caging. I love the way everyone feels free to revel in their own style and pleasure at AC (there was even a guy whose kink was rubbing in E45, I got him to do my elbows which get too dry and scratchy at this time of year).

March, please. Lots of writing to do (the book got positive reports and they've invited me to resubmit after revising), but plans are afoot for the next Hardon and also the assembling of a (possibly nautical) gang for April TG. Raucous outings definitely needed to maintain creative, ah, juices. Hope to see you there!

I'll give it up, I promise.

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 23:02:51 GMT

Just once more and then I'll stop

http://www.buzzfeed.com/peggy/ex-masturbator-shirt

Owwwwwww (grin)

Sun, 01 Feb 2009 14:45:12 GMT

The kinkious Burns supper last night was so much fun! It was nice to have a change from clubs and munches, to have a whole pub taken over in the name of haggis (still not quite sure) and spanking. It was all very civilised, with a piper and fabulous T-serving-girls, and loads of marvellous people to chat with and admire. After dinner there was not a single item of furniture that didn't get appropriated for bending somebody over it, and the air was filled with whacking, ouf-ing and cries of encouragement.

The atmosphere was very relaxed, and nobody seemed to care who or what you were. I was not asked once whether I was top or bottom or what I did for a living. When playtime commenced, people would go from being spanker to spankee with equal relish and aplomb. It felt like nobody had anything to prove, but everything to enjoy :-)

I had not thought of myself as being much into CP, but my arse having accidentally been involved in winning the tawsing competition I begin to wonder about this...

Remembered

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 21:48:07 GMT

It was my Dad's birthday today. I had completely forgotten, despite several waves of email reminder detonation placed around essential dates.

I was in the bank, attempting to have an argument with a young man whose levels of customer service training and intake of calming drugs were such that it was impossible to be anything but chummy and conspiratorial; within minutes we were getting along as if we had served together in Burma.

My mortgage letters are being sent to an old Yorkshire address, even though I have filled in several forms over the past few months declaring a Southerly location.

Ah, he said, a keen specialist look coming into his eye. The change of address forms, well, strictly speaking they're not the best means of telling us you've moved.

His hands hovered over the enquiry desk keyboard, suggestive of esoteric powers (like Willow when she is failing to pretend not to have dark interweb access). An almost undetectable gesture caused the rest of the enquiry queue, the street outside, every last pigeon, to melt into a greyish realm beyond the wheeling of the great bear. We were alone, my change of address problem receiving the undivided attention of this supernatural being.

In the course of our discussion he turned the screen my way to show a list of customers who have the same birthday and last name as me, by way of disproving his own theory that I might have been cloned. Clearly I was not a Stephen. And I signed several pieces of paper which he stapled together with a flourish, all the while peering into the Nationwide sub-ether in quest of a resolution to this mystery.

As a result of all this I found myself writing 30-01-09 in a set of neat boxes, immediately followed by swearing.

Dad was home alone, under medico-spousal orders not to get any cold air on his nasty cough. My suggestion that the nearest pub did not count as 'going out' was unsuccessful, but did lead to some rummaging under the stairs to produce bottles of rum and ancient Sainsburys ginger wine (dated 1994). Mum arrived back from sleeping through a public lecture and caused an incessant train of delicious foods to emerge, as we settled into banter, family news & assorted enquiries.

I thought how new this is, for the three of us to be so relaxed and happy around each other in such a way: me not trying to prove anything, her not struggling against a range of deaf ears, him not burrowing away from any bombardment.

Moist Patches

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 20:27:01 GMT

Charlotte Roche totally rocks. I wonder, though, how she would've turned out if she hadn't been transplanted from High Wycombe to Cologne at a tender age...

(Thank you spaceman :-))

rRraowrr

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 00:55:52 GMT

Sound of kitten emerging from doldrums and shaking off assorted lurgies ... just in time for a hearty new year filling of the holes, followed by the hunting and gathering of a wild boar, pepperoni & proscuttio pizza (with caramelised onion for that essential touch of civilisation).

Feeling extra tusky and snufflous now. Yum!

Entrapment specialists

Fri, 09 Jan 2009 20:49:19 GMT

Back from holidays.... and I need another holiday already! It was a shock returning from Africa to discover London has turned into an icebox. The train to work is like a scene from Narnia, frozen badgers all round.

Once I have recovered from (a) traditional lingering Christmas cough (b) what looks and feels like snow burn on my face (c) stomach in rebellion against everything, esp. chocolate & wine :-( (d) delerium caused by anti-malarials (e) marking endless heaps of assignments that appear to have been written by people on a higher dose of aforementioned prophylactics than self - secret outbreak of tropical disease in fens? - it will be time to get up to some belated new year's frolics (Malawi has many wonders and amazing people, but way too much HIV and homo-that's-not-godly for this slut adventurer to be tempted).

For now, though, it's all I can do to crawl into my basket and chew on second-rate 1980s feminist science fiction. This one features an alien species with dolphin bodies, one of whom has travelled to earth in the future, adopting in transit the form of a cyborg-enhanced Virginia Woolf. She fights with girl vampires in ladies' bathrooms, and has firm views on saving the human race from fatal vices:

"A prime test for madness and paranoia is called, 'insurance.' If a species has 'insurance,' it is patently doomed. Only a toylike, salivating, pent-up bunch of gruntlings could conceive of such a sociopathic type of gambling.

"Another test is called 'forms to fill out.' Any person or organism that asks you to fill out any kind of a 'form' whatsoever is an entrapment specialist of the sneakiest kind and should be avoided or if possible shot."

Pass me the 12-bore - tis prime form season back at the ranch. Knowing that this is the point in the academic calendar when I tend to implode / cry / leap off the photocopier / snap biros with my breath, colleagues have been super-nice to me this week with plenty of chocolate aeroplanes (wheeeeee) and hugs, looking out warily from behind bunkers hastily formed out of exam scripts. It's hard to stay psychotic for long when surrounded by love and candy bribes :-)