Day of the Necromancer

Sauron goes to hospital today. They are going to poke at him and tell me to go away until he's bigger. Or they are going to do things which may involve an injection.

My mother will be phoning soon. She has decided that MRSA is a greater threat than Sauron (whom she pleasantly describes as 'Black, lumpy, and full of life') and rather than risking infection, I should just cover him with a plaster for the rest of my days.

All this fuss about a mole is pretty damn stupid. Paltry. I am not going to worry. In fact, I may just skip the whole thing.


I am going to bed to dream of Venice and Scotland.

Delay of the Necromancer

Well, that was short, sweet and definite. The specialist wants Sauron gone soon, and, contrary to my expectations, his destiny is not to be frozen off or scraped flat (Sauron, that is, I wouldn't hold out too much hope for the specialist) no, the necromancer will be scooped to death in a minor op. Specifically, he's going to be cut out in a sort of eye shape ('iiiiiiiccccccccccuuuuuuuu....') and the two sides will be sewn together in a vertical line or something. Great.

My beloved took time off work to take me there and give me moral support. Just as well or I wouldn't have gone. He's going to be there for the next one too, he says. I think he suspects I might not go through with it. He has a point.

This is such a small thing. I just hate it.

So we spent the rest of the day together, watching 13th Warrior over ice-cream and really good beer. Larians is a total gem, not only a wonderful partner but the most kind and patient of best friends.

The specialist doesn't even know if Sauron really is a bad mole. He just doesn't want to take the chance.

Suddenly I want to go to Patagonia.