Gewecch

[smokingboot]

I have decided, in my long term mission to create a whole new language out of glossolalia, that made up Olde English is one of the best vocabularies never to have existed. Ge-wecch with a 'g' as in Gorge, not George and the 'cch' making the end sound in 'loch,' may be an anglo-saxon word meaning, 'disgusting,' 'ridiculously bad,' or 'sumptuously buggered up.' It is a word of many layers, most of which could apply to my day today.

It's bad enough to hear Cameron witter on about how brave it is to kill badgers when there's so much public outcry against it. I mean, I shouldn't write him off as a tory twat, because I know many Conservatives who are not twats - indeed, were it not for the attempts of Conservatives like Dominic Raab, the Snoopers Charter would have given UK authorities even more remit for rootling around in our undies, with nary a word of protest from Labour. So I shouldn't turn this into a party thing, even when angry. But by god, no, it is not brave to kill badgers contrary to popular preference. The word that miserable slitherer is looking for is undemocratic.

We're hearing that word more and more on Airstrip One these days.

Then there was the unfortunate issue of me being a total twit myself, and losing a black briefcase which contains diving logbooks belonging to larians and myself, plus our diving tables. Once qualified the dive log book isn't that important really, though it is handy; practically, the important stuff you need to record is about keeping a tally of nitrogen residue in your body (if I ever got to be good enough, one of the courses I might consider is first line emergency response, because there is something grimly fascinating about all the things that can go wrong with your body on a dive) but really a dive computer can keep all that stuff, and be more accurate about it too. Still, a dive log is a nice memento - and of course, after you finally get snuffed by something horrible in the deep, it's a nice lead for other cthulhu investigators, especially if you scrawl 'Don't
go down there...' as your last entry.

Anyway, I lost the logbooks and ran around all over Lewisham and then came home. Then I remembered where I might have left them and phoned. I was right. I went to collect the briefcase, the place was shut. I came home again to find the side of the garden that Thames Water are meant to be renovating still a bombsite, but now a bombsite with added animal turd. Depressed, I came in and started cooking a chili. I burned the onions so dramatically the whole house stinks of resolutely barnacled wok. Now I sit here, chili-less, with a gin and tonic. I am hoping my beau will settle for a kebab.

Gewecch!

Comments

Re: Of course he will.

[yapman.livejournal.com]

Any time.