A month of Sundays

Claire has declared this the weekend of neverending Sunday. I am forced to agree. Ridiculously enough, it has now been Sunday for three whole days. We are using the classic definition of Sunday, that is: "day upon one arises from one's bed at lunchtime, wears hoodie and jeans picked up off floor, spends hours not doing work, refuses to leave house/college and eats everything in sight." Other non-defining but supporting features include grey weather, washed-out daylight too dim to read by, and running out of anything edible at five minutes past four.

This weekend, I have done a spectacular total of no work at all. It has been horrendous. (Oh, while I'm on the subject, jacinthsong: I have just discovered a wad of notes on my desk entitled "Longer-Run Problems of the Balance of Payments". I strongly suspect they belong to you, so I'll drop them in your pidge in the morning.) I can't think of a reason why I should be so thoroughly incapable of doing anything. It's not just me, either; on my periodic rambles around the flat I occasionally meet another passing ghost, who babbles at me about either economics or Polybius and disappears again.

Or, indeed, thespy matters. Pat is not thesping at present, but is currently marketing The Awakening (seventh week; I don't know the details or I would feel obliged to pimp right now) for our mutual friend Helen (who has no LJ, but ought to). Not being thespy myself, I wouldn't have thought she could have involved me beyond threatening bodily violence if I didn't see the play, but no, tonight, she had me using my rusty and non-existent mad skillz to create the website for the production company. Which may, in fact, be the reason why I did no work this weekend. I was sitting on Photoshop trying to remember how to make things flip themselves whilst also cooking dinner, and a couple of hours later had created this. (The banner image is the finale of Carousel.) I strongly suspect I may have committed myself to all manner of online thespy things. We shall see.

Anyway. In news other than the long dark teatime of the soul, I am going to London tomorrow and thank god for that. Pedar is coming down, and this time no illness or weather warnings. Fingers crossed I actually get to see him this time.

And also, also, I have my remix author! And there are good things and bad things. The good thing is, I've looked through all her fic and found a story I think is, basically, great. But even as I was reading I was thinking, ooh, I'd change this and that and this but I wouldn't change that, that bit's great, and ooh, this would sound so funky in the present tense.... sigh. That's the good. The bad is that she's a big ol' scary intimidating BNF. (I mean, I'd never read her fic, but I'd heard of her before and people have told me before how good she is and oh, my, oh, dear.) I mean, the story I want to remix has about a million comments/reviews attached to it, and now I'm rather concerned I'm going to fuck it up and get lynched.

And the additional bad? If I remix this story, I'm going to end up writing an epic, I know I am. Oh, dear. But still. I love Remix, I really do. Maybe this will be my year for writing my story before the day of the deadline.

Enough. I have to get up in a ridiculously short amount of time.