Drink Me

Alice - possibly the best discovery of my year. Maybe just of the week. At least, the find of the night. Next time I shall dress in peacoat and opera gloves, with my best string of plastic beads. I'm not normally one for novelelty drinks, but coudn't resist the china pots of tea. Drinking lemon and honey from a bone china cup makes one feel qite innocent (and must be good for my cold, I thought, especially since the added shots of Jaegermeister normally taste like cough syrup to me anyway).
I fell in love with the next pot, a dumpy brown-glazed lump sticky labelled 'Mama Bear', like something out of my Brownie days. The mint tea and vanilla vodka it was filled with were slightly less reminiscent of childhood... Best of all, the old Tenniel illustrations on the walls gave me an idea for tonight's Mad Hatters tea party costume.

Cereal Killer

I suspect keeping my cats as indoor moggies may have blunted some of their predatory nature. Or possibly given them an abnormal sense of what constitutes 'Prey'.
I've started letting them outdoors, and someone brought me back their first kill the other day.
A piece of toast.
I like to think that they stalked it for hours, slinking belly low over the ground until the fatal pounce, killing it with a ferocious shake of the head. A spurt of crumbs showered the birds who had been dining on it, as they looked on, disbelieving. And moggy, mrowling the happy killer mrowl, dragged the carcass back home to show off to me.
I must teach them to hunt me chocolate...

Opinions vs Rectums

Jesus apparently died that I may -
...eat a lot of chocolate in the shape of a pagan rabbit.
...hide brightly dyed eggs around my house, so that in three weeks time, the still hidden beasties will force me to evacuate, and move to Nairobi.
...not be able to partake of a glass of wine UNLESS I have the foresight to have bought it yesterday, or be wanting fries with that. Or unless he resurrects himself near my tap and performs a miracle.
...still have to go to work, despite the fact the rest of the country is on holiday, and look after the animals of the aforementioned holidaying population. All of whom appear to have eaten chocolate/rabbits/decaying eggs, and are displaying their gastrointestinal displeasure. Explosively.
...be woken up at irregular intervals during my one sleep-in of the week by the sonorous clanging of the church bell ten metres from my bed.

Inked

Since my 30th birthday present from the boy was meant to be a tattoo, I've been trying to assemble my scrambled brain cells together long enough to decide finally on a what and a where. This is something I have long been pondering (since getting my first at the age of 21, they seem to be rather like Pringles), and you would think it shouldn't prove too daunting a task. I've narrowed it down to the idea of a few lines of text, written in a stylised typefont, probably on my lower back.
And now, the words.
Something meaningful to me now that's not going to make me feel like a complete and utter pretentious wanker when I am 82.
Something that won't make me look like an illiterate knob when someone else catches a glimpse of it.
Something that really represents the inner Nine, now and forever.

Or I could just pick random lines from whatever books I'm reading? Page 65, line five, first three sentences -->

'Oh. But he's dead'
'You can still be cool when you're dead. In fact, its much easier, because you aren't getting old and fat and losing your hair'
You know, that one actually has a certain something to it?

'As long as cardiac output and renal prefusion improve with therapy, renal function is usually maintained. Poor glomerular filtration is more likely to result in overdiuresis, excess vasodilation, or severe mocardial dysfunction. Reducing the diuretic dosage may restore renal function.'
Useful for when I sit MACVS exams, but I suspect I'll need a hell of a lot more tatts if thats the way I'm planning on getting through.

'A crowd flowed over London Bridge,so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, and each man fixed his eyes before his feet.'

Bollocks to this. Maybe I'll just get a snark instead....

Endo Metra

Three hours of laparoscopic examination this week revealed a constellation of renegade cells within me. Not renegade in a cancerous sense, more in a wayward schoolchild way. I look on my surgeon as a truant officer, really. Some of these rebellious endometrial cells had apparently decided they didn't appreciate the confines of my womb, and had instead decided to explore more exotic territory, loafing around on organs that I currently have far greater use for. Some had even gone so far as to create a beautifully termed chocolate cyst on my ovary, and I suspect Cadbury's will never look the same to me again.
Sore and tired, the two weeks off work which were earmarked for catching up with Masters coursework, are rapidly being consumed by sleep, and surfing youtube for amateur transplant humour.
That'll do, pig.