smokingboot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smokingboot) wrote2007-04-04 06:24 pm
smokingboot) wrote2007-04-04 06:24 pm
Serious warning: night of the long whinge
No, it's not good. Ralik brought in his first kill of the year, a butterfly. Surya brought hers in days ago, a wee mouse. I object to the mouse less than the butterfly, because lets face it, meeces are cute but very dirty. Butterflies, on the other hand, are just lovely. I know it's just nature, but I felt sad and weary to see it dead.
What of today? Well, due to a shifts cock-up, I am in danger of offending everybody and missing a very important night. I have juggled and talked and wheedled and the scheduler will come back to me hopefully tomorrow with a replacement plan. He is sanguine we can work something out, I am afraid he will give me a show worth less cash and therefore paying less. But never mind. I just want this out of the way.
Family. Luvverly. My extra-planar mother has sent me word that she wants me to 'empty her flat' because she is not coming back to England. Marvellous. Empty her flat eh? And how am I to do that? Shall I put all her extensive furniture in storage until the if and when of her return, and just pay out indefinitely from my Swiss bank account funded by my gangster lover in the vatican? Or shall I go back to basics and a bleedin' shovel?
'Just do it please,' her note says. What a wonderful world she lives in, where one speaks and it just happens. It's like being the queen without the crowds. And just how do I afford said miracle of removal, I wonder? But let's not bother her with sordid matters of coin. It will only occur to her to worry on her return when there's no flat. No flat! Poor homeless thing. She'll just have to stay with me then. Last time she did that she followed my [then] lover all over the house claiming he was kissing invisible friends. Super.
The great things about families is that even when they stop, they carry on. However insane I consider the idea, to get her flat ready for clearance, I must have the keys, so I phoned up mon frere who now abides in Belgium. She says the spare keys are in his house in Lewisham. He says he doesn't know, I can talk to his old lover/lodger about it, the guy who cleaned up the house after the last coked-up orgiasts to lodge there, so he may know. Or the keys may have disapeared. Christ.
But of course there is more. Littlebro has been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome/Higher Functioning Autism/Geeks Disease. I don't get what this means but OK; I thought we had agreed that being born to our parents was equivalent to pre-natal psychosis or an anal probe by aliens anyway. I must take this more seriously than is my wont; Bro is at least respecting family tradition by having some addiction or brain malfunction that makes life more interesting for the neighbours. And now he has proven his blood by making the superlatively epsilonic move of giving my father the info he has been nagging after for years; my mother's address. Jesus again, no wait. Let me think;
Jee.
Sus.
See the difference it makes when you consider these things calmly?
'He's changed' weebles littlebro, 'He won't cause trouble. I can feel it.'
Really? Well, the grand news is we shall know soon enough if he's wrong. And how would someone with Asperger's Syndrome know anyway? Isn't this the illness where you can't read faces and motives? If you realise that and you find yourself faced by one of Asmodeus' favourite nephews, why not just shut up?
Oh, I don't mean it, Dad's not a fiend he's just not a very nice man. I'm sorry bro's been through so much and Mum too but still...tell you what would be cool.
I want just now to be little and lost enough to bury my head against someone's chest, and listen to gentle words and a strong heartbeat, and forget Maelstrom at the weekend, forget shifts and shows and dates and times, forget everything except dark and candlelight and maybe some music and a kiss or two. I don't feel sorry, don't need to cry. But I know I could write later, sleep perhaps, if I just stop for a while and feel cherished and empty.
Gah! Enough. I know what's wrong with me. I'm tired.
What of today? Well, due to a shifts cock-up, I am in danger of offending everybody and missing a very important night. I have juggled and talked and wheedled and the scheduler will come back to me hopefully tomorrow with a replacement plan. He is sanguine we can work something out, I am afraid he will give me a show worth less cash and therefore paying less. But never mind. I just want this out of the way.
Family. Luvverly. My extra-planar mother has sent me word that she wants me to 'empty her flat' because she is not coming back to England. Marvellous. Empty her flat eh? And how am I to do that? Shall I put all her extensive furniture in storage until the if and when of her return, and just pay out indefinitely from my Swiss bank account funded by my gangster lover in the vatican? Or shall I go back to basics and a bleedin' shovel?
'Just do it please,' her note says. What a wonderful world she lives in, where one speaks and it just happens. It's like being the queen without the crowds. And just how do I afford said miracle of removal, I wonder? But let's not bother her with sordid matters of coin. It will only occur to her to worry on her return when there's no flat. No flat! Poor homeless thing. She'll just have to stay with me then. Last time she did that she followed my [then] lover all over the house claiming he was kissing invisible friends. Super.
The great things about families is that even when they stop, they carry on. However insane I consider the idea, to get her flat ready for clearance, I must have the keys, so I phoned up mon frere who now abides in Belgium. She says the spare keys are in his house in Lewisham. He says he doesn't know, I can talk to his old lover/lodger about it, the guy who cleaned up the house after the last coked-up orgiasts to lodge there, so he may know. Or the keys may have disapeared. Christ.
But of course there is more. Littlebro has been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome/Higher Functioning Autism/Geeks Disease. I don't get what this means but OK; I thought we had agreed that being born to our parents was equivalent to pre-natal psychosis or an anal probe by aliens anyway. I must take this more seriously than is my wont; Bro is at least respecting family tradition by having some addiction or brain malfunction that makes life more interesting for the neighbours. And now he has proven his blood by making the superlatively epsilonic move of giving my father the info he has been nagging after for years; my mother's address. Jesus again, no wait. Let me think;
Jee.
Sus.
See the difference it makes when you consider these things calmly?
'He's changed' weebles littlebro, 'He won't cause trouble. I can feel it.'
Really? Well, the grand news is we shall know soon enough if he's wrong. And how would someone with Asperger's Syndrome know anyway? Isn't this the illness where you can't read faces and motives? If you realise that and you find yourself faced by one of Asmodeus' favourite nephews, why not just shut up?
Oh, I don't mean it, Dad's not a fiend he's just not a very nice man. I'm sorry bro's been through so much and Mum too but still...tell you what would be cool.
I want just now to be little and lost enough to bury my head against someone's chest, and listen to gentle words and a strong heartbeat, and forget Maelstrom at the weekend, forget shifts and shows and dates and times, forget everything except dark and candlelight and maybe some music and a kiss or two. I don't feel sorry, don't need to cry. But I know I could write later, sleep perhaps, if I just stop for a while and feel cherished and empty.
Gah! Enough. I know what's wrong with me. I'm tired.
Aha!
Re: Aha!