Angry

Jun. 11th, 2011 04:14 pm
smokingboot: (smoking boots)
A neighbour has just come round to tell us that a prowler was spotted in our back garden a couple of nights back.

It's a biggish garden, with a little grove of trees at the back. On both sides the fences have been left to fall. Our garden is not so easy to get into, except via other gardens,who have let their fences collapse where they meet ours. And my bro has let ours slip on one side. Frankly, the gardens are meandering territory; anyone who can get into one can probably access all of them. I like to wander my garden at night. Apparently so does someone else.

So I am supposed to be careful to lock up, and I am supposed to be watchful, and I am the one expected to think twice about going out very late to enjoy midnight by the pond. Only that's not how it's going to be. I'm going to lock up as ever, but still intend to bimble under the moon, I'll just carry the baseball bat with me. I won't be made to feel like a victim. Don't know if we need a dog or a goose, but I know what that prowler needs...the good sense to stay the f*ck away!
smokingboot: (flower D)
So they offered me another shift and I ran down to London early; and the work went very well, except for my return to the grand klutzdom of early weeks in throwing a cup of water all over myself and the front desk, nearly drowning two teccies and my microphone. I have at least learned that the secret of dealing with such things is not to cover it up but to tell the audience about your disaster cos they love it when you goof. One texted the show especially to tell me that my 'expression was priceless'. Once again the prize for Most Elegant Presenter eludes me.

The trouble with this work is that it eats your head. I have not been able to catch up with chums at all, and in fact only made it to one party - a work related one, in a grotty little pub so frequently and fervently used by our lot, the company was seriously considering its purchase as the cheaper option. The party moved on to a Turkish restaurant with music and dancing, and I moved on to work the evening shift. So much for my wild lifestyle.

I came back to find my love and my kitties waiting, and unexpected developments in the garden.
Of interest to none save gardeners, and precious few of those... )
smokingboot: (daisy)
So there's the heat and the sunlight and the garden and me.

No maelstrom this weekend due to my first outings on the late night shows. Which means I should be looking to kip right now. Only I can't, because everything is too hot!

Growing up in Singapore, I hated having too many clothes on, and nothing has really changed; given the choice, if I could waft around in chiffons and gossamers or just very little, I seriously would. Everything feels so heavy against my skin, even dear old cotton; Winter is often an agony of clumped up scratchy layers for me, can't move, can't breathe, can only itch. No, I prefer a world where fig leaves and flowers are our only fashion statements...

See, I am looking at these beautiful flowers in [profile] mamapusscat's garden, while I try to kip on the lounger, and I can't help thinking how much nicer it would be if you could just wear petals against your skin; for one brief moment I imagined myself rolling around in the petals of a gigantic rose, wet and fragrant, admittedly there would be the inevitable impaling on a massive thorn to follow but no point complaining; pleasure should always have an element of the unexpected.

In lieu of giant flowers, I suddenly thought; 'I could just press the flowers against my skin' but of course, one wouldn't want to take them off their stems. So then I thought, 'I could go up to the flowers and press my skin against them instead...'

Then, crystal in vision, my mind's eye showed me a court room full of [profile] mamapusscat's indignant neighbours and baffled legalbeagles.
Read more... )


And suddenly we're dealing with an entirely different kind of court order...

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