Fic, feet, and Sefton Council

[raven]

Blargh. Boring day. Didn't go out at all, and all I did was type up letters and write the world's most boring article. Something about Sefton and European funding. I wrote it, and even I can't remember what it was about. The highlight of my day was the unexpectedly good chicken sandwich I bought on a whim. My life is so interesting. There reached a point where I was so bored, I actually got out a piece of paper and a pen and planned the Fic From Hell.

As an aside - I have decided that "the Fic From Hell" no longer refers to a particular fic. It simply means the most painful of the fics I am writing at the moment. Which is not to say I don't enjoy writing the damn things. I do. Why on earth would I write them, giving up on sleep in the process, if I didn't like them? But I think I have written all the fun bits of this fic; now comes the shoe-leather. As in, this bit happened and that bit happened, and those were fun to write, but something has to happen in between, and spelling it out is a chore.

But yes. I now have a piece of A4 paper covered in scribble. It represents my sole achievement for the day, unless you count another article, this one about a Beatles tribute band. I have no idea whether any of the crap I come out with will make it into the newspaper anyway, so just... blah.

Today is technically the hottest day of the year, but it's cloudy and overcast, so I hoped there wouldn't be so many people coming back from the beach. I was wrong. There were hundred of them. I wouldn't mind, if only they weren't all scallies. And they are all scallies. Why that must be the case, I have no idea. Contrary to the Gospel according to kittysplitter, I do not think there is a very easy way to define a scally. It's something more than bad dress sense, although there is that. It's something about the way a person's mind works that makes them a scally. The one rule is, if you think it is a good thing to be one, you are one. Full stop.

And that is everything. I am off to attempt to surgically remove my feet. I hate sandals. I hate them. I've got blisters and my ankles have given way again; if I can walk tomorrow, I will be very surprised. In any case, I'm wearing my boots. That way at least I get to defend my poor mistreated feet against the world.

La fin.

Comments

[gamesiplay.livejournal.com]

The highlight of my day was the unexpectedly good chicken sandwich I bought on a whim. My life is so interesting.

I know how that is. My major daily excitement is buying my Subway sandwich, and that's even less interesting, since it's not unexpected at all. I always get the same thing.

Which is not to say I don't enjoy writing the damn things. I do. Why on earth would I write them, giving up on sleep in the process, if I didn't like them?

Ah, see, I often ask myself that question....

What is a scally, by the way? The term sounds vaguely familiar, but I have no idea.

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

Ah, well, that's exactly it. The chicken was sandwich was a departure for me - I usually get ham, cheese and pickle. No Subway in Southport, unfortunately, so I just get them from Marks and Sparks. They have a sign saying "Sandwich retailer of the year." Presumably that's a good thing.

Fic-writing is a pleasure. Really! It's just the not-so-pleasurable parts that get me down.

And yes... scallies. I suppose the technical definition is a scally is someone who was born/brought up in Liverpool, but that applies to me, and I'm no scally. A scally has a very Scouse accent, usually prefixes everything he/she says with "EEEEEERRRGH!" (if you sound like you're choking to death on a stick, you've got it) and all of them, whether male or female, wears tracksuits ("trackies") and trainers ("trainies") and too much, too heavy, obviously fake gold jewellery. But as I said before, it's more than the dress sense. It's the way they think. Most of them have the intelligence quotient of a streetlight, in any case. And there's too many of them round here in August. They come to the beach in their droves, and I hate the whole fucking lot of them.

Oh, yeah - they say "fuck" a lot. As in, "What the fuck you lookin' at?"
And, "EEEEEfuckoffEEEERGH!"

[gamesiplay.livejournal.com]

I feel the need to tell you that, reading your definition of scallies, I burst out laughing right in my cubicle. The intern next door poked her head over the wall and gaped at me. You are not helping me maintain the illusion of sanity, here.