return of the twitchbell

[twitchbell]

Well, I'm back.

 

Which is what Sam said when he returned from waving bye-bye to Frodo (and company) and the Grey Havens.  Not that I've been anywhere that exotic.  I did have a short break a few miles from Fountains Abbey, and I found the house where my mother's mother was born.  And lots of gravestones belonging to various members of that side of the family, including my great grandparents.  But as all of them without exception had long since shuffled off their mortal coils, it was a bit late to start waving bye-bye to them.

 

No, I have been ill.  Hit with a veritable triple whammy of illness.  First came the sinus infection, which metamorphosed into a flu virus of horrible virulence and was followed a cluster of migraine attacks.  Lovely.  Huddled up on the sofa, clutching the Lemsip, I lacked the will to do anything as strenuous as watch a DVD, so instead I pressed the button the Sky remote until something watchable appeared.

 

Volcanoes.

 

I love volcanoes - safely from a distance, obviously.  I'm not planning on abseiling down into the crater of Mount Etna anytime soon: my devotion to volcanoes does have its limits.  So, I watched lots of documentaries about Pompeii and Herculaneum.  Then I fell asleep and dreamed a disturbing dream.

 

I was in Herculaneum.  Vesuvius was erupting.  I was sheltering in the caves down by the seashore, wrapped in the strong, protective arms of Jeremy Clarkson, when ... when ... we were incinerated by a pyroclastic surge and our brains exploded.

 

I am not normal.  Even my dreams are not normal.  There is a part of my brain that absolutely insists on being realistic, even if it would be really, really detrimental to the dream.

 

I once dreamt I found a preciously unscreened X-Files episode.  It consisted entirely of Mulder and Scully doing the spring-cleaning.  No kidding.  Mulder washed the curtains, Scully hoovered the carpets.  It was thrilling stuff. No wonder the bloody thing had remained unscreened.

 

Lucid dreaming is no improvement. The only time I mastered this involved my mother trying to buy me a flat that was located in a public bar. Part of me was obviously not happy with the idea of having a bed located under several barstools and it twigged to the fact that it didn't have to be this way - it could alter reality!  And it did: it added a spiral staircase and put my bedroom up there.  I could have directed my dreams anyway I wanted, but no.  I'm happy to just sort out the practical issue at hand.  End of dream.  Bugger.  I really wanted to live in a nice seaside villa with Johnny Depp, but that pedantic part of my brain no doubt felt that that wasn't remotely plausible (which, clearly, it isn't) and refused to cooperate.

 

Only once have I dreamed something truly satisfying, and that was Quantum Leap meets the Wars of the Roses.  I leaped back in time, married Warwick the Kingmaker, averted (most of) the Wars of the Roses by my sheer brilliance and mastery of political machinations, thwarted the rise of the Tudors and then finally 'leaped' home only after my beloved died of old age and the Plantagenet dynasty's future was secured.  Incidentally, I didn't age at all.  Mary-Sue, the Quantum-leaping Elf!  And I changed history - yay! Go me!

 

I suppose the dream where I lived in a tiny cottage with Jack Bauer and we made pasta together was rather nice.  I also suppose I was lucky that the morning alarm went off when it did, or the part of my brain that insists on reality would have ensured that immediately after we ate the pasta, the tiny cottage was attacked by crazed terrorists from an unspecified Middle Eastern Country (but secretly financed by rogue elements within the U.S. government, obviously) and I would have died horribly in a hail of bullets whilst Jack was taken prisoner. (Cut to shot of Jack looking simultaneously traumatised and hellbent on vengeance, and cue end credits.)

 

My excuse for the volcano dream is that I was feverish and my brain was scrambled.  Or, maybe, given the fact that I've had a lot of trouble waking up and have been moving around in a rather ungainly fashion, there was silicon contaminating my Morrisons' tiramisu.  (Rather than a cat contaminating it, as there was today when Geordi completely failed to notice the dish and jumped onto it in the mistaken belief it was part of the sofa.)

 

Anyway, I'm back.  The work-related stuff is almost up-to-date (inasmuch as it ever gets to that happy state), and that means I can allow myself to go online knowing that it doesn't matter if I get distracted.  I can even let myself get back to Doing Some Story Writing - I'm quite determined to finish that Halloween story before October, really.  (This would be easier if the people in the story knew when to STOP TALKING, but they don't.  And they insist on taking every conversation on diversions down numerous little avenues and alleyways until they've completely lost me.  I've had characters assume a life of their own and work to their own agenda before, but not three of them, and not all at the same time. Aaagh!)

 

To end with, aren't those rich people in 'Relocation, Relocation' bloody irritating with all their nitpicking and never being able to find a house costing £800 000 to match their exacting specifications?  For pete's sake, just add another £50 000 to it, buy a Bugatti Veyron, and then go and live in a sodding tent.

 

Comments

[twitchbell.livejournal.com]

I am officially an idiot because I have just managed to delete your comment. Aaargh! Sorry!

[rionaleonhart]

Hee, it's fine; I accidentally hit the 'delete comment' button rather more than I'd like myself.

Thank you so, so much for your fanfic reviews; it's incredibly lovely for you to review everything, and you have made me grin like a loon.

[twitchbell.livejournal.com]

My pleasure! :) (Grinning like a loon is a good thing!)