I had five questions from antisoppist. I won’t be giving them out, I’m afraid, because I can never think of them.

( Cut for rambling )

This is my picowrimo fic. I'm terribly grateful to the comm. for getting me to produce this - I've been thinking about it for two years, and it really was time I made myself write it down. So I'm very pleased finally to have done it, and I'm quite pleased with the fic, too.

Summary: ... because apparently it all happened quite late on Sunday evening, and they sat up half the night, kissing one another madly in a punt. From the Balliol hall to the morning after; at the end of Gaudy Night, Harriet and Peter take a punt on the river. Missing scene fic, the rest of that evening that DLS (curse her!) didn’t give us.
Rating: PG
Length: 7300
The usual disclaimer: Not pretending to be DLS, not going to make any money out of this. There are some direct quotations from the novels, which I am not trying to hide. The whole point of including them is that they are recognisable.

That a Lover have his Desire

The more ye desire her, the sooner ye miss;
The more ye require her, the stranger she is.
The more ye pursue her, the faster she flyeth;
The more ye eschew her, the sooner she plyeth.
But if ye refrain her, and use not to crave her,
So shall ye obtain her if ever ye have her.

Sixteenth century, Anonymous

( That a Lover have his Desire )

lopezuna has written a delightful ficlet sequel in the comments to my sequel to the disastrous Christmas present fic: you can read it here.

In other news:

picowrimo continues to progress, and though at this rate I am only going to get one fic finished and no original fic, that’s still more than I should have done otherwise. Look out for Peter and Harriet snogging in a punt coming soon to an LJ near you.

Something really, really funny (to me) has happened at work (not to me). I am not going to say what it is, even under friendslock, but I am laughing like a drain. Rest assured, no lessons will be learned.

I have started my Christmas shopping.

Off home now to watch “Autumnwatch” (I know they’re really annoying, but this evening it will be in the Cairngorms), and put together an Ikea chest of drawers. I bought a hammer specially.

It Happened One Night is famous, among other things, for striking a blow against the fashion for men’s vests when Cary Grant Clark Gable* removes his shirt to reveal – ta da! – not a vest, but a bare chest.

On Saturday night I settled down in front of the television, and watched IHON. The rope was strung, the blanket hung, and Gable’s hands went to his shirt buttons to reveal...

OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH THAT MAN’S TROUSERS?

They reached up to his armpits. They had pleats that began somewhere around the ribcage. They were huge. What was going on? Was this film, like Pillow Talk with which I had previously confused it, to turn out to have unexpected mpreg?

I reached for the remote control – and changed the aspect ratio and vowed never again not to check whether an old film had been subjected to pan-and-scan before viewing it on a widescreen television. The trousers were still pretty astonishing, the consequence of not wishing to show any shirt when wearing only a waist-length waistcoat, but could at least be viewed without shuddering and the wearer will never suffer a chill on his kidneys. I suppose that we should only be grateful that we didn’t see Gable take the trousers off and reveal sock suspenders and knee-length drawers. Claudine Claudette Colbert, on the other hand, takes her clothes off to reveal an expensive slip and that she is obviously not wearing a bra.

Then it turned out that the daring young man on the flying trapeze ran off with the girl. There went the rest of my childhood innocence.

My Yuletide assignment seems tolerably do-able, I think. Though I have had to banish my initial thought as probably not what the request was really looking for.

*Oh dear. I'm even worse at identifying actors than I thought

Thank you for signing up to Yuletide! I look forward to reading whatever it is that you write, and I hope that you enjoy writing it.

( Read more... )

Continuing the theme of November as the month of getting on with things, an update.

This year I decided to participate in picowrimo as a means of trying to get myself tackling some writing again - any writing that required a commitment. I meant to do some fanfic and some original fic. Due to being fairly busy over the last fortnight, I’ve done less than I had hoped because I haven’t managed any at the weekends, so its been evenings only and often short ones at that. Nonetheless, I am feeling pleased with my progress, which I am sure I wouldn’t have made had it not been for the challenge of the comm. I’ve been intending to write the fic I’m working on at present for about two years, and now I not only have nearly 4000 words of it*, but I made myself work through the tricky bits. Moreover, instead of thinking “Oh, I haven’t time to write much now and I’m tired” I have made myself start writing and discovered that in fact I have got time, and that though I didn’t completely feel in the mood when I started, I soon got stuck in. One of the reasons I’d put off writing it, thinking “I need lots of time” was the issue of structure; the fic has quite a few shifts in time and POV (so that, for example, Harriet remembers kissing Peter in the punt before the narrative reaches it) so how to structure it avoiding the twin perils of one damn scene after another and too much shifting about. Ironically, it was a problem that only came to be solved when I sat down and thought “I don’t know what bit to put next. Try this”. It’s a reminder that there is more than one potential right way for something to come out. I think I have got the rest of the structure more or less worked out, thought there’s room for movement. The next scene, according to my jottings on the bus this morning is “Punt – sit down. Initial snogging.” I am just about managing not to stuff it with my interpretations of particular bits of canon, although there's still quite a bit in there.

On Tuesday night I finally made it to Mayerling, in the excellent company of dolabellae. We started off with £9 in the Upper Slips, which were pretty good for £9, but did involve a certain amount of leaning forward and a partially obscured bit of stage. So at the first interval we moved to a pair I had identified in the main Amphiteatre, which cost about £45 and had a very good view indeed. The ballet itself was an interesting contrast to Sleeping Beauty – much less a one classical move after another showpiece, but more of a drama and with a lot more plot (occasionally confusing. I’d have been stumped if I hadn’t bought a programme). It also contrasted in that whilst SB gave most of the glamour to the women, Mayerling was decidedly focussed on the lead man. The sets and costumes were gorgeous, though I heard a couple of people making similar comments to and me, that some of the women characters weren’t sufficiently distinctively costumed to tell them apart easily. Its portrayal of the Hapsburg Court is not a flattering one – they’re hypocritical, violent, treacherous, sex-mad, and in the case of Rudolf a syphilitic lunatic. The most admirable character is Rudolf’s mistress, Mitzi, who reports him for asking her to commit suicide with him.** It’s definitely not the Austrian Tourist Board’s version of Empress Sissi.

I am very much looking forward to the weekend. However despite being absolutely shattered I am continuing to get myself out of bed at seven and thus into work earlier than my usual wont, thanks to taking advantage of the clocks going back to reset myself.

My new boots had their first outing in Cambridge at the weekend (though I changed into old ones for the fireworks in the evening). I even managed to drive there and back in very little over the AA’s predicted time, which I was rather pleased by. The chest of drawers I bought in Ikea is still in the boot because I can’t lift it out in the box and haven’t had time to put it together. A task for the weekend.

I am 475 page through the 991 page Bible. Hurrah! Psalms is, alas, less good than I expected because it really requires reading alongside a commentary, which is far too heavy for the bus. I shall have to give it a skim at the weekend. Yes, it is after all going to be a busy weekend.

*I did have 1400 words before the month started, but still wrote them under the pico spur as I had decided to get this done as my first project.

**One of those odd historical notes that chimes somehow. I was reading The Glittering Prizes recently, which didn’t simply mention pasta as something that the characters would have experienced for the first time on holiday in Italy (some time in the fifties), but published in the seventies still italicised it.

Tags: fandom, looking to the future, real life, writing

Discovered during a Google for Pass Plus driving schools in Oxford (I am not actually going to do pass plus, as I reckon at my age and the time I’ve held a licence, the money I save on the insurance will not make up for the cost of the lessons. What I need is a no claims record. I was looking because I want motorway lessons), this rather unfortunately-named company:

http://upassdriving.com/

I haven't yet signed up to Yuletide, but will get round to it before the deadline.

I have decided that November is the month of attempting to get on with things. At least some things. Some times.

- This started with seeing Sleeping Beauty on Saturday (not yet technically November, but never mind) in the excellent company of antisoppist. The design was fairly pink and pastel, but I rather liked it nonetheless. I have so far resisted the urge to turn the "plot" into lolcats: "Unexpected forest is unexpected". I am sure that I had a wand like the Lilac Fairy's when I was about 6, too. Driving pack from the Park and Ride at after midnight was a grim prospect when I was on the bus, because I was shattered, but once I got going ended up reminding me how much I enjoy driving at night on empty roads. Alas, though it will be dark when I go to Cambridge on Friday for the Heyer day, I doubt the roads will be empty unless the Rapture strikes between now and then.

- My attempt to turn over a new leaf by going to Beginners Pilates has been thwarted by the class being full, but I have booked for next week. Will I go for a run tonight instead? Erm...

- I have signed up to picowrimo and made a good start yesterday by tidying the sitting room so I now have space to write and don't feel guilty about the sitting room needing tidying. My goals are: to work on some original fic (the children's fantasy with wolves and implicit orgies - unless it is secret ritual Am Dram, of course), and to produce two bits of fanfic. We shall see how this goes.

- I went up to Leeds last weekend for a weekend with my parents that for the first time in ages did not have to fit in around plans for my sister's wedding. Alas, the weather was poor, but for someone who does not usually enjoy walking in inclement weather, Strid Wood in the rain was beautiful. There was an extraordinary amount of water in the river, which did not look the least tempting to jump*. Downstream, having reflected on the convenience of the place for murder, my father and I came up with a really excellent Golden Age plot so good that I'm not going to waste it in fanfic.







*Google tells me that Wordsworth wrote a poem involving an ill-fated attempt to jump, yet another bit of local literary history that didn't make it into my schooldays. Google also tells me that the Strid is the subject of a bit of Victorian Gothic slash. The author of the latter is, incidentally, correct about bodies getting trapped in the ledges underwater.

Thank you for all your comments on the boot poll. In the end I bought the buckled boots.

In the end, much as I adore the buttoned boots, I liked them more for their qualities as an artefact than wrapped around my legs.

Can anyone remember where that wierd little shop in Soho-ish is, with all the bottles of mysterious liqueurs in the window?

I want a bottle of Williamine, having more or less promised to bring some up at Christmas (also, it's really nice). If anyone can think of any other sources in the south-east (or Yorkshire) do also let me know...

(Cross-posted to stylishly_yours)

A year on from this post, and I still don’t have any brown boots.

So it is time to seize the day by the scruff of its neck, and buy some boots.

So do I buy the boots I liked last year and still like with the buttons*, or the boots in really lovely burnished tan with buckles?

Poll #1477923 Boots
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 40

Do I buy:

I'll aim to keep them for at least five years. Hmm. Does that answer the question?

*Available locally for £150, not £185, or there would be no contest!

Blame

With apologies to Allan Ahlberg

I feel appalled you wrote that fic!
To canon it ain’t true. It
Makes me want to wipe my mind.
Yes, but Nineveh told me to do it.

The giant squid fic made me sick -
I can’t believe he blew it!
It wasn’t my idea at all!
Nineveh told me to do it.

I’m sure that Peter would never say that
Even if he knew it.
But I looked it up in the OED -
And Nineveh told me to do it.

Nineveh, this has gone too far.
You shouldn’t push them to it.
It really isn't all my fault:
They tell me to tell them to do it.

An alert to those who may have missed it in comments to Yuletide Hell, azdak has been committing Bunter/Saint-George: The Rich Man in his Castle. And people say my mind is scary...

ankaret linked to some jolly sensible advice on the writing of Yuletide prompts and how to (a) hopefully get something you’ll really like whilst (b) avoiding frightening your author so that she runs and hides in a ditch.

In the course of the post was some additional information on conventions in some anime fandom, which it appears are rather complex, but seem to boil down (once one has just given up on understanding the iffy foreign language numbering thing) to Harry/Draco being considered a different pairing from Draco Harry.

Which leads me to suggest a game/meme: write in comments the Yuletide prompt that you would hate to get. Others are then invited to try and write a sentence of it.

To get you started:

(1) Wimsey/Bunter (NOT Bunter/Wimsey, eww!)* ^^(trebizon)/gecko-alpha-gecko It's got to be a really plotty mystery (the more plot the better! I want them to trail criminals at night and have to use disguises, and there should be at least 4 cliffhangers) about how Peter has an illegitimate brother and Helen finds out, and tries to have him murdered. I don't want Harriet getting between Peter and Bunter. Barbara should be in it: maybe she and Harriet are having an affair LOL! Sub-plot: Bunter seduces Saint-George because he wants to top. RPF Mosley would be a bonus.

(2) Bunter/Winifred. Any.

* It is interesting to note that under this scheme there is no Wimsey/Bunter at all on the web, it all being Bunter/Wimsey. Which makes the fact that there is giant squid/Bunter (though not Bunter/giant squid) even scarier.

Even more incidentally, someone asked (perhaps metaphorically) on the LordPeter list where the Bunter fanfic is. I have not yet decided how to reply, but it is awfully tempting to make some suggestions...

I will not recount the thought process that started with a genuine fic dilemma, and ended with my mentally composing Lady Peter Wimsey’s letter to Dan Savage in which she recounts the events of this fic, and in the manner of writers to Dan Savage who aren’t following mode (1)*, but mode (2), enquires how how one best gets someone else to do something a bit (or indeed, very) kinky.

* “Arrgh! I did [this], what do I do about it/does it make me [a furry]?”

On further random thoughts related to fic, the signs festooning the farm next to the Roman Villa (I don’t want to steal one of your scrubby little horses, thank you very much) suggested that cowpats weren’t the only way the post self-defence scene might have gone in Gaudy Night:

‘Thank you for the testimonial. Cigarette?’

He lit it for her and watched as she curled her arms about her knees and sat quietly. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and he was definitely out of practice. He would have to call on Bunter’s services for a massage if he weren’t to be horribly stiff tomorrow. Harriet beside him pressed a thumb against her neck. He winced inwardly, and hoped that she wasn’t going to be visibly black and blue.

‘Cheer up. It’ll – My God!’

From beside the placid cows erupted an appalling below, heralding the appearance of the farmer running as fast as heavy boots and form would allow, brandishing fist and shotgun, and joined by the music of hounds.

‘Peter!’

‘Get off my land!’

***

Re. the BBC’s “Emma”, the Times reviewer has it exactly right: Sandy Welch simply does not seem to have found a way to tell Emma Woodhouse's story.

Ironically, that would explain why we had a slightly better episode this week: it gave up and instead told us Mr Knightley and Jane Fairfax’s stories (tangent, it was nice to have an adaptation that finally notices Mrs Weston is pregnant during the course of the year, and – not being a Victorian – not disappearing from all society*). I really didn’t expect to find Miller the series’ saving grace, yet last night, whilst never removing the poker from his bum for a moment, I felt that he brought real pathos to the character, suggesting a man who has realised that he has made a horrible mistake in casting himself as the onlooker and now fears it is Too Late. Also, well done for not playing “Mr Widgery’s Maggot” or whatever that dance tune is that was in the 1995 P&P and is now in every single Austen adaptation.

*Further tangent. When Regency ladies go on outings to Box Hill for most of the day, what do they do for toilets? Does Miss Woodhouse crouch behind a bush?

I went to North Leigh Roman Villa this morning. I didn't want to go for a lengthy walk, but having been round the ruins, as the hedgerows and woods of this part of the world are, for reasons presumably of climate and soil (or terroir, as Nigel Pargetter would put it) quite different from those of Yorkshire, I decided to wander a bit further along the footpath for a little stroll in the woods. I was halfway there when I saw the circling birds and stopped to see that they were indeed red kites, which I didn't realise made it so far into Oxfordshire. Standing watching them, there was a sudden and prolonged scream in the scrubby grass in front of me, and after a moment I saw a stoat dashing off burdened by something in its mouth. Death of a fieldmouse, I assume. I don't remember ever seeing a mammal kill something in the wild before (OK, I didn't see this, but it was two feet away and I certainly heard it).

On a related subject, BBC1, "Last Chance to See", whilst I do think that commercial whaling (leaving aside subsistence hunting of other species) is, because unavoidably enormously cruel, therefore wrong, it is nonetheless disingenuous to suggest that blue whales are being hunted commercially. I don't like that minke whales are being hunted so, and it certainly doesn't help the ecosystem, but let's keep our arguments honest, please.

In a good mood, having cleared the table last night and spread out vast quantities of notes in order to get down to writing some fic at last. Moral: write the blasted fic before the notes file is 3/4" deep and you're battling through the scene thinking "I know that I've got this somewhere - or was I only thinking about it on the bus?". Not to mention the challenge of choosing between different versions of the same scene jotted down five times.

In the course of this virtuous pursuit (for a given value of virtuous, but really anything that can engage my fleeting work ethic deserves note), I came across this little sequel to this fic, on the subject of the Disastrous Christmas Present, and since it isn't going to turn into anything larger, thought I'd post it.

Return to Sender

The shop, of course, would have wrapped and sent it, but he wanted to put in a note, and he could not deny the slight qualm at the thought of giving Harriet’s address to the girl. Happily, Bunter was a whizz at parcels and could make brown paper, string, and sealing wax around a little glass vase look fit for Egypt’s queen.

He had not, of course, waited in all day for the telephone. It was simply that the weather was appalling, and he felt a slight chill coming on so that it would be foolish to go out.

Perhaps the telephone was a little much to expect. It hadn’t been much, after all. A mere token of regard. It hardly deserved even a note.

For a moment his heart had lifted at the sight of his address in her handwriting, until he took in the size of the box. The smash had been the fault of the post, of course, but that was no consolation.

***

A tease from something else entirely

She was in the garden, shredding a sunflower head between her fingers, when she heard the kitchen door open.

‘My lady.’

‘Bunter.’

He looked old. Grey streaks in the dark hair, hollowness about the eyes. And heartbroken.

‘His lordship has accepted my resignation.’

***

The Yuletide Challenge is here! Time to start thinking whether to make the Serious Requests I always have in the past, or perhaps be a little bit more imaginative. The challenge is being imaginative without being evil. I mean, I know how I felt for a moment when I was faced by Miss Climpson. It's all very well to think something would be entertaining to read, but one must have some sympathy for the writer faced with e.g. Bunter/Saint-George.

After my whinges about last week's episode of Emma, this week's was better in that it didn't spend 20 minutes on wholly unnecessary intro, and also I have grown inured to the irritations. Jane Fairfax was Wrong, but Frank Churchill was the the acme of perfection (and of smarm) even if they chucked in unnecessary made-up plot.

After azdak put the idea into my head, I am becoming more inclined towards the idea that Frank Churchill murdered his aunt. What's this, if not laying the groundwork for assumptions of a natural death:

That she was really very ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from anything that care and medicine might not remove; but he could not be prevailed on by all his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.

One can practically hear the uncorking of the bottle marked with skull-and-bones.

I am still getting the sandstorm forecast for Oxford on Wednesday night . I am beginning to feel as if I am in a Stephen King novel, and that it is going to be an extremely localised sandstorm and that I shall be found on the doorstep on Thursday morning, my bones picked over by eldritch creatures as I reached for the keyhole.

Finally, on Friday afternoon in a dull meeting I found myself contemplating a fanfic scenario in which there was the possibility of the phrase "the smaller man". The eldritch creatures might be a mercy.

According to the BBC website, the forecast for Oxford on Wednesday night is "sandstorm". I am inclined to think that this is a glitch.

I really hope that Barack Obama has been negotiating to great effect with Our Alien Friends, because otherwise...

I think that pour encourager les autres can be a good reason to give an award, even if it doesn't always work out (*cough* Israel/Palestine *cough*), but in general I would prefer recipients of the Nobel Peace Prize to be required to meet a slightly higher standard than "Probably not a multinational corporation stooge and warmonger". If I were the president of Switzerland I'd be very annoyed.

I don't expect the impossible or even the purely virtuous. If this had been a joint award to Martin McGuiness and the Rev. (Dr) Ian Paisley* I'd have said "Yes, they're both ex-terrorist/sympathisers, but they show a valuable political lesson in how the sociopolitical situation can re-invent itself and there are plenty of people who wouldn't have done that." With, of course, the privilege of not having lived in N. Ireland.

That's what happens when you give the Peace Prize to Norway...

*Does anyone else remember the Radio 4 (Dead Ringers?) sketch at a party, "The question is do I want sausages on sticks?"

[Ed. I also adore the inhabitants of Pandagon, who are oh so liberal and caring, until they are actually arguing that a 5 year old child who pets a strange dog deserves to have her face torn off for her temerity.]