My slightly demented, addled, early morning exchange with Simon Dewar

My addled brain and half awake homour resulted in this exchange betwen me and Simon Dewar just now.

I deserves to be preserved for posterity.

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Me:- not sure what time it is there, but ahoy there matey
Simon:- Hey how’s it
Me:- something’s taken up residence in my nose and throat
Me:- NOT AMUSED
Simon:- Ahhh
Simon:- That sucks.
Simon:- Hope you feel well soon
Me:- if they’re gonna take up residence I DEMAND RENT PAYMENTS
Simon:- Lolol can’t blame you
Simon:- You getting rest?
Me:- I wanted to watch the Late Late Show but for the second night in a row I have passed out and woken up at this ungodly hour due to perky morning news shit
Me:- irritating my brain stem
Me:- >blows nose loudly at you<
Simon:- Sounds terrible lol
Simon:- What’s your plan for today then? More writing?
Me:- YOUR SENTENCE CONTRADICTS ITSELF, SIR. YOU ARE ENJOYING MY PAIN
Me:- Naw, man. I’m not opening Scrivener at night for a while. That weekend kidnapping incident by that… (checks wordcount) 9500 word story is still traumatizing me. Who knows what other story ideas are lurking out there
Simon:- Lol i get like that too.
Me:- WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING
Me:- ARE U MOCKING MY PAIN, SIR? (throws down gloves)
Me:- (or slaps you with one, whatever the thing they used to do is…)
Simon:- No, just amused that all writers seem to be similar in a way
Me:- LIAR
Me:- (points)
Simon:- Similar issues and habits. This is amusing
Me:- I know of an incomplete novel that’s lurking about my parts. I don’t want it mugging me right now AT ALL.
Simon:- I can’t write novels. It’s too hard.
Me:- Meh.
Me:- it’s 63,100 words. it’s a book.
Simon:- Yup, that’s a novel.
Me:- It wants me to massage it till it gets an…ending. Happy or not
Me:- u know like in thos disreputable massage parlours
Simon:- Haha I don’t wanna know.
Me:- AHA I KNEW IT YER MOCKING MY PAIN
Simon:- I have to go. chores await. Feel well soon. I’ll try and get to your story tomorrow.

Snippet

Again, from this story called “A Stitch in Time” there’s a speculative element, but… again…it’s not obvious here.

Sex abuse trigger warning, though.

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This was the point of no return; you believed it.
You woke in the morning in the dark hour before the dawn, so worn out you could barely rise from your bed. You lay naked, bathed in sweat, a prey to the fevered dreams that had somehow caused you to rip off your clothes and bedcovers. The parting waves of the dream were still near, and you could feel it affecting you in every fibre of your being. Heather had been in your dreams, at her most beautiful, her most seductive, and spent the night with you, tantalizing you with the weakness, the glory of the flesh.

Closing your eyes now, you tried to picture once again her chestnut hair, Heather, Heather, hair light as a feather, dangling over you, fragrant with her favourite perfume, a perfume she wore just for you; you feel her touch, her naked warmth. Imagining yourself reaching up your hands, you sigh and part her tangled hair – and see your father’s face.

Your eyes fly open, a cry wrenching your throat apart, but you won’t let it out. You turn to your side on your bed and, denying the howl release, you beat at one of your forearms, the spot pulsing and livid, till the sensations inside, the feeling unclean, the all of it, passes, and you feel something close to normal once more.

Still a better love story than… wait, no it’s not

Fifty Shades of Socialist Feminism:-

“Look,” I say, “I don’t think you’re really a ‘dominant’ at all. I don’t think you know what that means. I don’t want to police your fantasies, but the way this is playing out is deeply problematic. You’re just an entitled sociopath and misogynist in a nice tie, and there are plenty of people who might find that sexy, but I don’t.”

Some thoughts on TV versus reality, Downton Abbey style

Just something to think about for all the Downton Abbey fans.

From Facebook:-

Lee Wood:I had a friend who’d bought a very old Georgian farmhouse out in “Yahksheer” to renovate. She was showing me around, and took me up into the attic, where the roof was still original, cold wind blowing in under the eaves, and the top floor a warren of tiny, TINY rooms. I said, oh, they stored food up here? No – this was the servants quarters. The average room had just enough space for a very short and very narrow bed and a couple hooks on a door for clothes. That was it. The life of the average Victorian housemaid was appalling – and yet they considered themselves LUCKY to have a life in service, so bad by comparison to the farm life. No Downton Abbey gloss at all. Racial slavery slowly died out, but the brutal exploitation of the poor went on long after Victoria.”