smokingboot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smokingboot) wrote2004-12-13 09:58 am
smokingboot) wrote2004-12-13 09:58 am
Entry tags:
Activity/ Inactivity
They should have left me in my pit this weekend.
Saturday night saw us with Macclesfield chums at the Rose and Crown in Wildboarclough, no really. Dark hills and the smell of farmyards everywhere, yet nary a living thing to be seen...it's just the Slaughtered Lamb refurbished. This year, the inhabintants are full of Christmas cheer. The ancient inkeep wore a green pixie hat with red stars that flashed in rolling succession, powered no doubt by the volts passing between his ears. The music was terrible, the pub cats and dogs were pleased to see us and food was plentiful and simple. I had tempura veg to start, and it really was delicious. Then I had trad turkey followed by a Christmas pud and a mince pie, and found myself too tired to eat it, too tired to make proper conversation, too tired, in fact, to do anything at all except sit there staring at my cracker.
I was marginally better on Sunday night, when we joined Larians' family who had come up to Leeds for a relative's graduation. Food at Bibi's restaurant was nice enough but Leeds really is a horrible and pointless city. The best I have seen of it include remarkable Victorian facades hiding mediocre hotels. Beware of the Hotel Metropole, iniquitously touted by the local tourist office as four star; water as brown as coffee, in some rooms no hot water at all, flat beer, flat lemonade, nasty cheap wine, awful service and beef sandwiches at 15 quid a pop (but hey, you get horse radish sauce with it) People of Leeds, rise up and belay your town planners with rolling pins or the horns of cattle or whatever you have to hand, for they hate you and have made your home expensive, inconvenient and hideous. It takes a lot for me to say this. I thought I had seen the worst after observing Brum, Manchester and Oldham. I begin to suspect Paxton is right when he suggests that the English can't do cities. My caveats would include London (of course) Oxford, Cambridge and Brighton, but I know those who would claim three of the four to be large towns. Doubtless they have their horrible areas too, just not so close to the town centre.
So much for the weekend's activity. More important was the weekend's inactivity, for I took sleeping to new levels on Saturday night, and it felt so sensual, so good to just stop, I want to record it for myself. Pillows, many pillows, quilts and warmth and tactile sensations and a soft perfume to the room and ambient lighting...
I love touch, I love to feel textures against my skin. Tactophobia (that cannot be a word) has never been my problem, because people getting inappropriately close to me is an unusual ocurrence, not something I expect or fear. This had elements of the whole scented pillow-chute experience normally associated with erotica, soft and sinking and velvet. I lay there idly dreaming of pressing the centre of my left palm and feeling all my fingers silently shoot off into 2001, circling the earth pointlessly forever. It was when I tried to imagine the same for my other hand, when a vision of my bloodied stump pressing away helplessly made me abandon the idea in distinctly unsexy giggles. I was in that delicious half asleep state, feeling kisses on my hair and touches on my skin. Oh, I couldn't do anything about it, you understand, any lustful onslaughts would have met grins and apologetic yawns, but it felt great without an ounce of effort.
There is such a thing as quality rest. Sleep. Dream. Sex. Avoid Leeds.
Saturday night saw us with Macclesfield chums at the Rose and Crown in Wildboarclough, no really. Dark hills and the smell of farmyards everywhere, yet nary a living thing to be seen...it's just the Slaughtered Lamb refurbished. This year, the inhabintants are full of Christmas cheer. The ancient inkeep wore a green pixie hat with red stars that flashed in rolling succession, powered no doubt by the volts passing between his ears. The music was terrible, the pub cats and dogs were pleased to see us and food was plentiful and simple. I had tempura veg to start, and it really was delicious. Then I had trad turkey followed by a Christmas pud and a mince pie, and found myself too tired to eat it, too tired to make proper conversation, too tired, in fact, to do anything at all except sit there staring at my cracker.
I was marginally better on Sunday night, when we joined Larians' family who had come up to Leeds for a relative's graduation. Food at Bibi's restaurant was nice enough but Leeds really is a horrible and pointless city. The best I have seen of it include remarkable Victorian facades hiding mediocre hotels. Beware of the Hotel Metropole, iniquitously touted by the local tourist office as four star; water as brown as coffee, in some rooms no hot water at all, flat beer, flat lemonade, nasty cheap wine, awful service and beef sandwiches at 15 quid a pop (but hey, you get horse radish sauce with it) People of Leeds, rise up and belay your town planners with rolling pins or the horns of cattle or whatever you have to hand, for they hate you and have made your home expensive, inconvenient and hideous. It takes a lot for me to say this. I thought I had seen the worst after observing Brum, Manchester and Oldham. I begin to suspect Paxton is right when he suggests that the English can't do cities. My caveats would include London (of course) Oxford, Cambridge and Brighton, but I know those who would claim three of the four to be large towns. Doubtless they have their horrible areas too, just not so close to the town centre.
So much for the weekend's activity. More important was the weekend's inactivity, for I took sleeping to new levels on Saturday night, and it felt so sensual, so good to just stop, I want to record it for myself. Pillows, many pillows, quilts and warmth and tactile sensations and a soft perfume to the room and ambient lighting...
I love touch, I love to feel textures against my skin. Tactophobia (that cannot be a word) has never been my problem, because people getting inappropriately close to me is an unusual ocurrence, not something I expect or fear. This had elements of the whole scented pillow-chute experience normally associated with erotica, soft and sinking and velvet. I lay there idly dreaming of pressing the centre of my left palm and feeling all my fingers silently shoot off into 2001, circling the earth pointlessly forever. It was when I tried to imagine the same for my other hand, when a vision of my bloodied stump pressing away helplessly made me abandon the idea in distinctly unsexy giggles. I was in that delicious half asleep state, feeling kisses on my hair and touches on my skin. Oh, I couldn't do anything about it, you understand, any lustful onslaughts would have met grins and apologetic yawns, but it felt great without an ounce of effort.
There is such a thing as quality rest. Sleep. Dream. Sex. Avoid Leeds.