smokingboot: (satyr)
Once again, a hillside, the darkness of wood and field, the old toll road and tavern. Within, the cadaverous proprietor took our order; ('Broccoli and stilton soup? We haven't had that since the young master died...well, they say died...') turkey roast, little pots of uberdarkchocolate with chestnut, madeira, cream and rasberry coulis. Crackers on the table with ghastly jokes, pointless toys and disintegrating hats, dogs wagging their tails, and other tales wagging too; the place is 18th Century and its kitchen has a ghost with a tendency to throw vegetables at unwelcome intruders. Foody poltergeists seem to follow me around.

Strange how, despite the fact that 2005 has been mostly horrendous, I have so much more energy than this time last year, when a well aimed ectoplasmic carrot could have knocked me into a coma. Midnight came and I left the merry mob, braving the dark to hurl a mince pie at the bushes in an attempt to flush out any werewolves. They rustled the branches but didn't approach; they must have guessed my cracker had an almost silver triangle puzzle game in it.

Today, more feasting, this time at a medieval banquet in York for a friend's 40th. Even fewer werewolves, but at least I can hope for a phantom viking or two. Time to go dig out a costume.

Life is feeling better.
smokingboot: (Default)
They should have left me in my pit this weekend.

The Slaughtered Lamb )

Of Leeds )

Inactivity in perfection )

There is such a thing as quality rest. Sleep. Dream. Sex. Avoid Leeds.

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smokingboot

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