Gibberish

[smokingboot]

My mind is doing a grand tour of avoidance today. I want to do anything except think about the rest of the week. Yesterday was heavy, rescued only by a fine Vampire game, full of colour and spark. As usual, I enjoyed it immensely. I love the characters we play, they’re very three-dimensional, and the world is brilliantly woven together. At the moment, I’m involved in two incredible tabletop games, one called Stabface, the other, Suckhead. Someone has to run a campaign crossover called Suckface.

Today has been rescued from more money worry by the arrival of a reasonably chunky little cheque. I’m glad it arrived. Now I can stop worrying about real life and invent more interesting problems to mull over.

I’m in the mood to brood. Broooooood! I don’t mean brood as in feeling my womb burgeon at the popping pods of manseed, no, I mean brood as in to ponder over pointless imponderables, do the feminine equivalent of Heathcliff meets Mr Rochester.

Unfortunately, neither literature nor history have much room for brooding heroines/ villainesses. We’re generally expected to be good sound gels with no silliness about us. The only approved brooding heroines are either crazed elemental beauties (Catherine Earnshaw, Wuthering Heights) or frenzying bunny boilers (Glenn Close’s character in Fatal Attraction) Both have their strong points. If you’re a stormywafty, you get to be adored obsessively beyond death, but your drawbacks include great big nighties and really stupid men. If you’re a bunny boiler, your desperation makes you totally unattractive, but you have one enormous advantage: A steak-knife with which to kill really stupid men.

Damn. Now I can’t brood because I’m beginning to cheer up. Nothing to do with really stupid men of course. My mind replays yesterday’s footage of the Springboks’ buttock parade wading through swamps with tyres on their heads. Though I admire a nice bottom on a man, bums en masse remind me of BR pork pie buffets. The situation is not helped by the inclusion of scotch eggs.

My love brought me a bouquet today. I know it’s a cliché but I really do love flowers. These are roses without compromise, the only way to be, scent, thorns and all. Some are cream coloured, petal rims dipped in deep ragged pink, and some are pure crimson, all surrounded by weeping grass. They lift my heart, which is something I need in the face of tomorrow (dentist) and the day after (hospital). Tomorrow I can’t get out of. But the hospital? Pointless waste of time, freaks me out, fuss about nothing. I’m seriously thinking of not bothering.

Think of something else. Think Vampire, think brooding, think Bronte, think Catherine, think Glenn.
Not working.

Think Roses.
Just working.

Think Springbok bums.
Pies! Pies! Pies!