raven: stock shot of a wall with "I love you" graffiti (stock - love)
Previously on Raven's Exciting Life, she was trying very hard not to fall into traffic. I am pleased to report that this did not transpire, that frosty cold weather is very uplifting, so is shepherding your forever directionally-challenged mother around London on one of the last weekends before Christmas, and surprisingly, SSRIs can be kinder and sweeter on your body than they seem to be on TV.

It's funny, the difference a week can make. This time last week I was tending towards the entirely-insane, and thank you, you people who were calming and soothing and threatened to pick me up and carry me to the doctor's themselves. Thank you. Because, I went, and my GP said, well. If they make you feel this bad, and you actually are this ridiculously stubborn and bloody-minded (note: she did not actually say this; she merely looked at me in a resigned sort of a way) then maybe I'd better just come off every drug I was on and we could see how that went. So I went home and didn't take my pills. On Thursday, I went to school. I went to a criminal law class where the main theme was the murders, assaults and rapes that are committed by depressed people, and I was angry, but fine. And on Thursday night [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong and I rolled up to OULES on a tipsy cloud of joy. (OULES, for those new to the party - the Oxford amateur drama group that has, in its own special way, eaten me and spat me out in its own, gin-drinking, bad-punning, raucously-singing image.) The Michalemas pantomime was Beauty and the Beast, complete with mysterious men in black and a Belle who engages in genetic engineering on the side and a Beast who was, I believe, supposed to be, er, beastly. Unfortunately it was played by [livejournal.com profile] sccye, who was all pretty and furry and said "raaargh!" a lot, which led to the audience all exclaiming "Awww!" whenever he came on, much to his distinct chagrin. In short, it was a delight. And then [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong and I, who are respectfully employed and respectfully postgraduate respectively, did not go to the cast party but went home, ate an entire fruit strudel and went to bed early. Ah, my advancing years.

And so to the weekend, wherein I went to school again, went to London, and met my parents, who are on good form, if mostly looking like surprised deep-sea fishermen at the Christmas lights and people and shoppers and other things one does not generally find in hospitals. (My mother is at it again: on our way out, she asked me, or at least thought to ask me, have you taken the water bottle. Unfortunately, what came out was, "Have you taken the blood?" She later explained it with "It's an important fluid! It's the same thing!" I still think she's working too hard.

And, later, she got lost, she reported. She was supposed to be walking to Euston, and asking policemen and going on abortive detours and at one point, asking what she described as, "A man in a funny costume. A funny hat. And a pipe. He said I should get the number 27 bus."

"Man in a funny hat," I said. "Were you by any chance on Baker Street?"

Apparently my mother is the only person in the world who can ask Sherlock Holmes for directions and still be lost.)

And so we get to Sunday, and there are no traces of either fluoxetine or citalopram left in my body. And my god, I can tell. I have my short-term memory back. I'm not sleeping every hour the universe sends. And, er, I had the usual, er, disagreement with my mother over the weekend ("No, I am not fat. Look, really. I'm not. See, my jeans fit. See, you can put two fingers between the denim and my hips. No, I do not need to 'bring myself in hand!'") and managed not to say, um, I have been on appetite-suppressant drugs for five months, but now I want to eat. I actually do feel fatter, but I suspect that's my body reacting to such horrors as bread and pasta and cheese and lentils and all the other things it ritually disdained for all that time. Mmmm, food. I like it. In short, I am smarter, hungrier and perkier. If I get depressed again, I get depressed again. In the meantime, my braaaain, how I missed you, darling. I am glad, also, to have been spared the discontinuation effects. Long half-life, I guess, or just me being bloody-minded.

(The only side-effect that hasn't vanished has been my Technicolor dreamscape; I might get used to that, in time, complete with melodramatic thrashing about and creaking bedsprings. We shall see.)

And so, and so. In other news, I have a baby-dissertation supervisor - who thinks I have a topic that could actually work and be interesting and topical and other such things - and I have all the homework in the world to be catching up on, but am feeling zen about it, because I can catch up, I will not fail all my exams. Things to do over the next week include said homework, going to a few pro bono meetings and applying for jobs, which will need me to do something about my crazed-dilletante CV, but yes. Am working on all of that. And enjoying being awake, too.

And in yet other news: still haven't started [livejournal.com profile] yuletide fic. Several pages of Merlin/Arthur pr0n progressing nicely.

edit: Also! Was in London, saw this dress. Fell in love. Do not have money, do need not another dress. But... love. I wish to record my love.
raven: (misc - thine own self)
Ye gods, I am spammy these days. (No doubt I then won't post for two months or something, to make up for it.) Anyway! Two public service announcements:

-Firstly, I just got a nice little email from the admin-type people at the central admissions board, and it looks like, if I pass my exams this year, I will have a place at the Oxford Institute of Legal Practice (OXILP, usually; one day I'll get over my allergy to abbreviations) for the LPC, and so will be in Oxford for the academic year 2009-10, as well as this one. So that's nice. We all need a plan.

-Secondly, I am changing meds again - from citalopram to fluoxetine - and as such, in the next few days, if I am teary, flaky and scary, it's probably just a consequence of my winning personality but there is at least a statistical chance that it isn't, and many thanks for patience.

(And, just to make up for continuous spam, the Mousehole is rocking to Amanda Palmer. Have these: Leeds United; Runs in the Family. The second one in particular is fucking awesome.)
raven: panel from PhD comics, woman with speech bubble: "Wait a minute... I'm the only female in this class!" (misc - ppe)
So, internets, what have I done today? Mostly... failed. Yeah, failed. But I'm surprisingly cheery for someone who's been ridin' the failroad all the live-long day. Stuff and things:

-Woolworths has gone into administration. I mean... seriously. Woolies. I appreciate I live in one of the few English cities without one, but there is at least one in Temple Cowley. Where do I get my pick 'n' mix now? I am a grown-up! I demand sweeties!

...yeah. Although it pleases me to learn that the one I remember from early childhood, where, one might say, a lifelong passion was formed, was in fact the first Woolworths in this country, having opened in 1909.

-The cat has exploding diarrhoea. Hurrah. Well, she doesn't any more, but the last couple of days have been... traumatic. "Poo on the walls!" wailed [livejournal.com profile] chiasmata, who is a saint. I fully intend to bathe the horrible creature tomorrow; she smells, and has got into the habit of stuffing her little face into my bowls of chocolate cake/breakfast cereal/unripe mango.

(We are currently consoling ourselves, every time the cat does something horrific, with the thought that her tiny furry testicles will be chopped off soon. Some of the men of our acquaintance have expressed concern at the sheer amount of glee to be found inherent in this fact.)

(Also, the end is nigh: the cat has learned to use a computer. At any rate, I left my open laptop in my room, only to return to find [livejournal.com profile] shimgray maintaining a conversation with her over Google Talk. Well, I say conversation; his side of it was "HELLO CAT", and hers, "09?"\'olpp--------------".)

-I own a corset. I'm not sure exactly why this is. It is purple and velvety black, laces up at the front, has lace and trimmings, and I totally don't have the breasts for it, and I love it. I mean... yeah. I don't know why, but I've been in the sort of mood to get dressed up and go dancing. I may have to wait until the next Intrusion (for the initiated, this is Oxford's monthly goth night - because goths only need to socialise once a month) before I can deck self up in corset and glitter and ludicrous amounts of eyeliner, but still.

-I am trying to write some notes about duress and necessity defences in the criminal law, but I keep finding myself looking at the open window of, er, Merlin fic. (Fic! I am writing fic! Should I be happy or incredibly embarrassed!)

-My awful essay on EU preliminary rulings has come back and is, predictably, awful. This is mitigated somewhat by my tutor's style of softening the blow; he is apparently of the opinion that exclamation points make everything better. So: "Not a bad essay! Satisfactory citation! More case law required! Presentation needs improvement!"

...and so on. I am actually very fond of the man. The last class I went to was on free movement of people within the European Union, which in retrospect was a very bad idea. Naturally, this eventually fell into some white-privileged arse standing up and saying, "Those immigrants! They come here, steal our women, take our jobs!"

I paraphrase, but I'm sure you all know the type. So, he said that, and then there was a long pause, while everyon in the class tried very pointedly not to look at me, sitting there quietly being brown, and then tried very pointedly not to look at the Amazing Greek Dude tutor, who is, er... Greek.

And then everyone looked very embarrassed. I had schadenfreude. It was good.

-My braaaaain! Is still a bit of a bugger, really. I've had some serious dips in my mental health this week, and also am beginning to quantify the side-effects of the citalopram. It makes me ridiculously, continuously sleepy, is an appetite-suppressant (which is why I have spent the last two weeks of my life living off fruit and breakfast cereal), and, annoyingly, makes me stupider. At any rate, it gives me issues with my short-term memory, which leads to lots of wandering into rooms and wondering what I went into them for.

(That said, I had a nice moment of affirmation last Friday; having mostly spent the day failing, I had got sick of my lovely lovely land law lecturer looking at me with big sad disappointed eyes and said, "I'm not really fail! I love your subject! It's just that I'm a crazy person!"

Maybe not quite like that. But, anyway, her response was, "You poor old soul," in a very motherly tone of voice, and yeah, I kind of heart her. Anyway, I went to her lecture at the end of the day, and said, "I have a question." (It was not a very interesting question. If anyone really wants to know, it was: if a mortgage of transfer is no longer legitimate in English law as of LPA 1925, and as such the deads of title are held by the mortgagor, how may the mortgagee possess and sell in law and not in equity?)

She got a really horrified look on her face and said, "Oh god, I didn't tell you all that? Everyone, stop it, you can't go yet, thank you so much for asking that."

I don't know why it made me so happy, but it did. Something about oh hi, I'm still sometimes smart.)

-And that's it. Hopefully, no more fail. Or at least, just a little bit of fail, because it's nearly Christmas. Maybe back to duress. Or fanfic. But probably duress.
raven: (misc - marwood)
I remember, when LJ was still running out of a back room in San Francisco and I had a free account and it would go down for hours just as I'd done my homework for the night and I'd sit and fume that I couldn't pour my fourteen-year-old angst into it.

...I tell this story as evidence of how much things change, really. I have spent the evening not doing my homework; I failed to do contract; then I failed to examine the insanity defence for murder; then my mother phoned and talked at me solidly for an hour; then I failed at offences against the person. I shall shortly give up and go to bed, I think.

Anyway! I am Doing Things for my Mental Health. This gets long, and somewhat self-obsessive, so it shall be duly cut. depression! echolocation! menstruation! Gratutious Capitalisation! etc )

And, lastly - pick a topic for my baby-dissertation! (It's not a dissertation, they say; it's just... a long research project. Uh-huh. Yeah. Not at all the same thing.) I was telling my father about it this evening, and he said, thoughtfully, "Well, it was to be expected. Baby's first step, baby's first word, baby's first thesis."

...yeah. And now to bed.
raven: lit tealight against dark background (stock - diya)
Shubh Deepavali. I have been utterly, utterly spoiled, and it was a beautiful Diwali. When I was in London over the weekend, [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong and [livejournal.com profile] subservient_son gave me cards and presents and then [livejournal.com profile] chiasmata gave me mangoes (mangoes!) and a cheerfully ecumenical "festive" scented candle, and sparklers. On the day itself, I didn't do anything complicated; I covered the living room with tealights, put one on either side of the door, and told everyone to come to the Mousehole and help me celebrate. Which they did; they came, and they gave me sweets and fruit and more candles, and when I came to process around the house, leaving a diya in each room and each place where we live and work, they followed me around (I heard [livejournal.com profile] triptogenetica say, "This is the most religious thing I've done all year!") and it was a lovely sequence of moments and light. And we went into the garden and played with sparklers, and last night it snowed. It didn't stick, but it was beautiful.

(One jarring note: New Housemate trying to tell me (certain types of) racism are funny. But, well, Diwali is not a day on which I wish to educate people about their racism. I was thinking this morning in the blurry moments before consciousness that I used to not think so much, and I used to take a lot more for granted, and then I read and did my degree and just, thought a lot more, and now the world is a little darker around the edges, it's full of the awful things people do but also the awfulness of what they don't mean to do, but do, and my space in it is less comfortable as a consequence. But I take that, I take that knowledge over ignorance, and I keep on thinking and reading and I'll be on this planet another fifty years and there's space and time for me to change it.)

In short, it was a candlelit, comfortable night full of people and food and it was just the Diwali I wanted. Thank you all. My favourite part of it, other than the tealights, was the part where [livejournal.com profile] luminometrice and I decided that as she is a medic and I'm a baby lawyer, then clearly we should go into business as "Coroners R Us" when we grow up.

"You could do birthdays and bar mitzvahs," said [livejournal.com profile] magic_doors thoughtfully at this point.

"What?"

"Well, there was a coroner who used to come and give talks on colostomy bags..."

"What?"

"Do you think Jewish people shoudn't have colostomy bags, Iona, is that it?"

"Not thirteen-year-old Jewish boys doing their first reading from the Torah!"

"What, just because he has bowel cancer he shouldn't be a man?"

"No, no, of course, Maria and I will go into business together as Ecumenical Colostomy Balloon Animals R Us oh god what the hell is going on?"

I never did figure it out, but by then I was laughing so much it hurt to breathe. Life is strange but full of light.

Today, the world outside is at sub-zero temperatures and stupidly, ridiculously beautiful, with a clear-blue intensity to everything and all the edges cut out sharp in frost. Shortly, I shall stop procrastinating, playing with the cat and cleaning, and set myself to an essay on preliminary rulings in European Community legal systems, and then take a walk up the hill to school. I'm being talk-therapied again today. I'm not sure what to say, really, but I like the guy, and know he knows that I am not mad, and that's a start.

In brief: I am better. I feel now like I'm recovering from an injury, or at least a long illness; I get tired easily, noises hurt and the landlord drilling meant I had to leave the house, and I reach a point in every day where I just can't go on, I can't read, I can't think, I need to lie still with my eyes closed and wait for the inner lights to switch off. And yet. And yet, I have good day after good day, I look forward to honey and waffles in the afternoon, I write snippets of a story before bed. I remember why my friends make me laugh, I remember why the cat is still my dear beloved fluffy monster, I remember being in love.

I'm still not right. Most notably, I still don't have much of an appetite, and making myself eat is still something I'm working at. But this is perhaps the only good thing about depression, or being a person who has it - the climbing out to find the world waited for you. It kept on being beautiful, it kept on being full of light. I shall have to keep taking my pills religiously, and keep on being talk-therapied. But I'm still here.
raven: (hp - tonks puff)
I have discovered why I run out of spoons every day at lunchtime! It's 'cause someone's selling them behind my back!

My mother did, in fact, buy some Iona spoons over the weekend, on the grounds that she'd been wanting to buy spoons for a while (clearly, a long-cherished dream, and who am I to judge) and it seemed a good omen. It's a funny name for product ranges, mine - there used to be an Ikea range of furniture, and also a type of crystal miniature. I don't know what connotations my name is supposed to have - probably, elegant and minimalist, and not, five-foot-three Asian geek-girl, but reality is frequently inaccurate.

Anyway, I am still here. Still quite a lot spoonless, and would really like pills to start working soon, plz. My GP was extraordinarily plummy and somewhat stand-offish, but basically helpful; he said, profoundly, why don't you take two pills every day instead of one. Hurrah for the scientific method. I am duly taking two pills every day instead of one, and so far all that has happened is that I've been very sleepy and headachey, and still feeling grim. Being around other people is draining, but, couner-intuitively, also does me good; they stop me thinking in circles by, I don't know, being themselves and interesting.

One of the things that is quite difficult about all this is that I have to cope with all sorts of stuff just when I'm least able to deal with it. Considering that I am all faily-faily paralysed-with-fear girl, I did think I ought to inform someone of an academic persuasion that, oh hi, there is a distinct chance I may be failing in the general direction of academia fairly soon. I went to see my personal tutor, therefore; he said, that's nice, it's not my bailiwick, go and speak to the department. I emailed the department. They didn't reply for a week, and finally did this afternoon to say, that's nice, it's not our problem, go and see student services. I went to student services. I sat outside for a bit, then went to the door marked "Disability Office" and asked the person inside, "Are you the disability office?"

"No," she said cheerfully, "This is international student services. Disability is in the advisory services."

I went to the advisory services. They were closed. It was 1.26pm. I sat on the floor and read about contract for half an hour. Then I went in and said, somewhat harrassedly, "I would like to talk to someone, please."

The person behind the desk twisted a lock of hair around a very sharp fingernail and looked at me. I looked back. Around us, the clock ticked, the other people in the last stages of bureaucracy-induced breakdown shifted in their chairs. I said, "I'm going away now," and did.

And so, when people ask me where I've been and if I've been ill, I smile and nod. It seems sensible. Today I made it to a nine o'clock lecture, managed to write things down, even, and came home feeling a bit icky and decided I wanted a shower. I got in and found the plumber had turned off the hot water.

Okay, I thought, I'll have lunch, is what I'll do. Not eating makes me feel worse. I went into the kitchen and discovered the plumber had filled the kitchen with a gas hob, a stepladder, two toolboxes, two chairs, two squished-up tarpaulins and several clouds of rising dust and a radio playing angry early nineties pop music.

I'll do some work, then, thinketh I - so I went up to my desk, got out a book on contract, opened it to the chaper on promissory estoppel and reached for a pen. And then next door started playing Bob Dylan at top volume next to the wall, the cat started wailing in concert and from downstairs, I heard the sound of a blowtorch being switched on.

I went back to bed.

Anyway! Things that are cheering, because there still are many:

-[livejournal.com profile] sebastienne deciding that the very best thing to cheer me up would be a rousing rendition of Dragostea Din Tei. Moldovan pop music ftw. It was indeed very cheering.

-The Vagina Monologues! It's on next week in Oxford, and it's the first time I've seen a professional production and I am very excited. Also, [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong is coming, yaaaay.

-Last week at the pharmacy, I'd queued up and handed over my £7.10 and was waiting to get my lovely pills, when they called the guy in front of me, a perfectly normal-looking chap in jeans and boots. The man's name was Fertility Crombie. That was his name. I have told this to everyone. It does not stop being amazing.

-A very nice person who elects to remain nameless has translated one of my stories into Russian. I have been able to read Cyrillic since, well, never, but it's nonetheless very pleasing to see it up there. The story in question is "Love in Fire and in Blood", which is one of my favourites of my own stories, being nothing more than an affable comedy about drunken people being drunk. (And is, I think, the last piece of Sirius/Remus I wrote - which is notable, because the only reason I stoppped writing it was that I had, actually, written absolutely everything I had it in me to write about them.) Anyway! Story, in Russian! I should at some point compile a list of which of my stories have been translated - there are a handful in French and in Russian, but perhaps on a day when I have more spoons.

(Actually, I am sitting here being ill, someone rec me Sirius/Remus that I haven't read.)

-I have a cat. She still caterwauls impressively and thinks chewing my ankles is an entirely acceptable way to express love. Have an entirely gratuitious cat picture:

you're a kitty! )

That's it. Still here, still going to be here.
raven: (xf - give that girl a gun)
As a number of people have asked: I'm all right, really. The night before last it wasn't so much that I couldn't sleep as I couldn't sit still; I wandered around the house feeling really rather insane, and then, at five o'clock in the morning, thought clearly, hell with this, and when it got light, started making arrangements to make the journey north.

As dramatic gestures go, it wasn't bad - I got out of Oxford all right, and somewhere near Leamington Spa, rang my father to tell him that, er, possibly, maybe, I might have adjusted my tickets and might, possibly, be home in a few hours. He was concerned. And then because he is secretly five, carefully didn't tell anyone about it. So at half past four, when I stepped softly through the front door, my mother shrieked, "My baby!" and jumped on me. Which was worth it, really. Within about five minutes she'd made me some coffee whilst simultaneously telling me I drink too much of it, and when did I last eat, do I ever, why didn't I tell anyone I was coming, etc. It was good to be back.

I am actually not entirely sure this was the best idea in the world - there are so many relatives visiting that I'm having to really fight for peace and quiet, and of all the assembled masses, only my father knows why I'm really here, in the sense that he knows I'm quite depressed, not that I've been diagnosed as such. My mother merely thinks that I meant to do this all along as a surprise, and I think telling anyone the truth would lead to a major family meltdown, so. So this isn't actually relaxing as such; I'm having to hide my pills and such. I tell everyone I have a lot of work to do, which is certainly no lie, so can hide behind textbooks when needed.

But there are compensations. The weather in this part of the world is doing something it often does at this time of year, and getting hectically, fiercely beautiful. I went out briefly earlier - before remembering that in small country villages, post offices close on Wednesday lunchtimes - and watched the seagulls wheeling up against powder blue. It's lovely. The family situation is one thing, but what isn't claustrophobic is of course the landscape, which never changes. It's worth this, at least, being here.

Also, it is worth being here for some of my relatives. My cousin Sunny, who is an easy-going Australian medic, is here for four weeks to do his elective and is making my life calmer by his mere presence. He is cool, calm, collected, and predictable in what makes him happy. "Today," he announced this morning, "I am going on pilgrimage."

"Anfield?" I asked, ever-so-slightly amused.

"Yes," he said dreamily, and I wrote down the bus routes for him, because, seriously, who am I to stand in the way of other people's religious experiences. Off he went, happily, at about lunchtime, leaving me to the soft afternoon and the study of the criminal law.

So, yeah. I'm... not okay, but I'm still here. Some things - the small, everyday happy things, like my mother buying me a cupcake, or [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong ringing me up to be appalling, or being in the vicinity when a life-long Liverpool FC supporter is asked by a well-meaning relative if it's Goodison Park he's going to today, and has to be led to a chair and given a glass of water - are making me smile, and feel good, or at least okay, and then it reverts, and I'd rather go and hide and shiver in a bath. But, well. There is a bath, at least, to hide in.

Tomorrow, if I feel up to it, I am going in to Liverpool to find the post office, get my Macbook fixed and possibly have lunch with [livejournal.com profile] forthwritten; at the weekend, [livejournal.com profile] shimgray is coming up, which will be very good for my mental health and catastrophically bad for his. And on Sunday, I return. I will go and get my head looked at by the medical profession on Monday.

So... yes. Still here.
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
The LSAT was on Saturday. As I keep saying to everyone, the only thing worse than an exam that is four hours and forty-five minutes long is an exam that is four hours and forty-five minutes long in a room with no clock. I was mostly howling by the time I came out, which was a looooooong time afterwards. I have no idea how I've done, but I don't think I care very much at this stage. yet more misbehaving brain babble, srsly, igore me )

miscellany

Sep. 30th, 2008 06:23 pm
raven: (misc - mortimer)
One of my favourite episodes of Sports Night is "Intellectual Property", mostly because it combines the a) incredibly sweet (Dan! Sings Happy Birthday to Casey live on air! It's vaguely gay!) and b) incredibly geeky (It's against the law to be vaguely gay sing Happy Birthday on air!* It's still in copyright!) but also because of what Dana says to Natalie, later. "What's the last good idea you had?"

Quoth Natalie, "When I woke up this morning, I decided not to stick my hand in the blender."

It's been that sort of a day.

Things achieved today:

-Not throwing myself into traffic at any point, by the simple expedients of hiding in libraries and toilet cubicles and other such places where this would be a) messy and b) inconvenient.

(This is a judgement on me, I feel. Yesterday I went to see my sweet, reassuring and competent GP, who said he was glad that the citalopram was working for me, it was good to hear I was feeling better, asked about my past history with depression and then, contemplatively, what my degree and post-grad are in. "PPE, then law," he said, still contemplatively. "Well, you're not very stupid, are you?"

It pleased me. Anyway, of course I start acting like an overwrought lunatic the day after I assure a doctor I'm quite sane, thank you.)

-Losing my house keys, by the similarly simple expedient of being a fucking idiot. I have lost a single key off a ring. I have not lost my bike key (for which there is a spare), my house key for up north (for which my parents have spares), or my room key (which I never use) or the remote access control on the ring (of which there are several). It is my fucking house key, for which the spare is missing.

-I had a bath. This actually wasn't an achievement. I mention it because I managed it without major disaster.

-I saw a car with an Obama bumper sticker! This was exciting.

-And, finally, went down to our letting agency with my housemates, and met the obstructive, rude and obnoxious woman responsible for sorting out our new contract. It was a horrible experience, especially coming after a day of ick, but at least she was unambiguously awful and wrong. We don't understand, she said, we don't understand the difficulty in drawing up a contract. We don't understand.

At which point I could have, but didn't, pull Poole's 667-page Textbook of Contract Law out of my bag. But I didn't. Scratch everything, that was my big achievement for the day.

In other news, my mother had, when she was about seventeen, an enormous crush on a Hindi film star called Dev Anand. She saw all his films, she cut pictures of him out of magazines, the whole shebang.

Today, nearly forty years on, she met him. She saw he was doing a book signing on a poster, and went and was first in line to buy tickets and sat at the front and asked him a question and was breathlessly, flailingly excited. She just rang me up and shrieked, "I met Dev Anand!"

I think, all in all, she had a successful day.



* This is not actually true.
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
This weekend has been mostly marked by a profound sense of unease. I don't like Indian summers; I sort of distrust baking asphalt in late September, and there have been a lot of comings and goings, so the Mousehole hasn't been the usual haven of continuity it usually is (that said, our new housemate is pretty, butch, Swedish, and radiates an aura of absolute calm; I heartily approve); also, on Saturday I did the enormously smart thing of forgetting my pills. By four in the afternoon I was overheated and mad. It wasn't good.

Speaking of pills, I pause to boringly discuss myself and my drugs )

(Pause there for [livejournal.com profile] shimgray to inform me from the kitchen, wistfully, "Iona, your fridge is on a deep and fundamental level unlike Andrew Jackson's White House."

And a further pause for me to realise a) he is making cheese on toast and b) and cannot find the cheese.)

In other news, I have [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong visiting, which is always a force for good even when I am being flaily flaily useless girl. I went for a long walk, I sat in the garden for a while, I tried cleaning, but in the end I gave up, slept soundly for four hours and she came and petted me occasionally. It was a good cure; I woke up feeling much better, and have since then eaten a large bowl of pasta and cheese, a large bowl of cereal, a slice of bread, a chocolate bar, two sherbet lemons and a sliced apple with lime and am still hungry. Possibly what I have also ails the cat; at any rate, she has spent the last four hours or so fast asleep on the sofa, looking ridiculously cute.

Ah, yes, speaking of the kitty, she is a boooooy. We took her to the vet, walking her down the Iffley Road in a carrier while she wailed piteously, and sat in the waiting room cooing through the bars before we took her in to see the vet. The vet was a very nice woman indeed, not at all fazed by the four women it apparently required to take this one very small animal to the vet's, and lifted up Harriet's tail, and said, yes. She has testicles. Your kitty is a boy. She is, however, still being referred to as "Harriet" and "she", because, well. Because we can, and we're used to it.

(My personal favourite bit of this whole encounter was the part where the kitty sat there like an angel while the vet injected her with a BIG GINORMOUS NEEDLE and we wailed and clutched our breasts and cried, "Baaaaaaby!" She, meanwhile, didn't make a sound and didn't squirm and when it was over she gave the vet a forgiving lick. We've had her a month and I don't know what we did without her, dear little thing.)

There is nothing else of note in my life at present, it must be said. Last night I saw the Jules Verne pass overhead, a brief shining thing glittering through the twilight. Because I am small, and our back garden is full of trees, I had to be lifted up to see it overhead, and it's amazing, how this brief passing star lifts you out of dinner and washing-up and the smell of apples in the garden, up into the sky with it.

What else? Land law is fascinating. I am not being sarcastic. Land law is this delicious tangled mess of common law, Roman law, history, tradition, Latin and lore, and I love it. I hope I still love it after twelve weeks of flailing about in it, but I'm certainly enjoying it at the moment. Tomorrow, the doctor's, then school for just an hour in the afternoon - I'm going to do some pro bono, so help me.

Life, v. exciting. Goodnight, all.
raven: Geoffrey Tennant with his head in his hands (s&a - siiiiiiiiigh)
I've been rather ill for a few days, as a result of missing a pill - note to self: you are enormously susceptible to caffeine, alcohol and THC; does it really shock you that your body fell over citalopram like an overexcited kitten? - and spent the weekend in capacity as clingy awful doom woman. Having intended to spend the time reading about, you know, the English legal system, I decided instead to lie around the house sleeping at random intervals, jumping at loud noises and telling myself that no one loves me.

in which I babble for a couple more paragraphs about my misbehaving brain, and it's really not at all interesting )

In other news! [livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong is visiting, and the Mousehole is a nice blur of people and food at the moment. Last night, [livejournal.com profile] deathbyshinies was DJing at Intrusion, so, accordingly, we got gothed up - black chiffon! really fucking enormous spiked dog collar! liquid eyeliner in "really really black"! - and we went and danced. She had the early slot, so for about an hour we were the only people in the Cellar, and were able to eat candy-floss and drink vodka and strawberry-pink cider and dance like mad things. I was still covered in glitter when I went to bed. It was a delightful evening, although the DJs that followed seemed to trend towards bleepy industrial rather than proper goth, and I remember my sixteen-year-old self too warmly and well to not resent that. Hurrah for Jack Off Jill and Snake River Conspiracy and Placebo in their Black Market Music phase and all the other things I loved so much when I was hiding in my room wailing that no one understood me. Also, I really love glitter. I do, I do.

Today, [livejournal.com profile] sebastienne held a Biggles convention in our living room, which was bemusing but sweet, and the Large Hadron Collider was switched on and the world didn't end. ([livejournal.com profile] jacinthsong suggested that, if, say, today the world was ending, would I finally give in to her advances.

Unfortunately the patriarchy intervened before I could say anything, forshame.)

I have read nothing whatsoever of the law today, but never mind. I go to fetch wine and pizza, and we're watchig First Contact. Life could, on the whole, be a lot worse.
raven: Martha against washed-out background (doctor who - martha pwns everything)
I am brain-fogged and chilly. This is probably a combination of September squalls and the fact I forgot my pills, leaving me with a cumulative effect of feeling a little translucent and washed-out, as though the light is passing through me. I'm being held to earth by the expedients of sharp claws and the newly-discovered art of caterwauling. I took a bath, leaned back into the water, and listened to an ice-cream van go past playing "Greensleeves", the rain hitting the wrought iron in the garden in manner of arthritic gamelan, and the racket outside the bathroom door. "Betraaaaaaayal!" wailed kitty. "You're in that roooooooooom! You don't loooooooove me!"

It's not what I expected, I must say. I expected a more, shall we say, businesslike and companionable relationship with this cat. I am a dog person. I like dogs, I'm used to dogs, for preference enormous solemn-eyed dogs who, if I am crass enough to take a bath in the middle of the afternoon, do nothing so ostentatious as howl or scratch on the door but rather arrange themselves in attitudes of mute, hopeless devotion, occasionally shifting their paws into better silhouette for the sculptor who is no doubt on his way. Kitty, on the other hand, demands food and shoelaces and love, vociferously. They tell me she will grow up to be a dignified and serene tabby-cat. I will believe this when I see it. In the meantime she gets stuck in the bookcase and goes to sleep between my crossed legs and attempts to steal the bootlaces out of one's boots. The jury is out as to whose boots she prefers, or indeed if she has any concept of us as individuals, even the-tall-one-who-smells-of-dust and the-smaller-ones-who-smell-of-gin.

(Apparently the way my hands move over the keyboard is very threatening. My forearms are getting ripped to shreds.)

In other news, being an unemployed layabout continues. I had a job interview yesterday - well, I say interview; it was more in the way of an assessment day, consisting of five hours of fairly horrifying set tasks. I was, shall we say, terrified; Shim spent much of his morning talking me down from the tree I got myself into beforehand, and then I rang for a taxi and it didn't come for ages and blah, blah, glaaargh, it was at nine and I got there at 8.59 and honestly, I could have started better. As well as an interview, I had a written test, a group exercise, a quite awful exercise in verbal reasoning, and I had to give a fifteen-minute presentation on "challenges facing the legal profession", which I had practiced on many inanimate objects, as well as [livejournal.com profile] chiasmata and [livejournal.com profile] sebastienne, who, to my surprise and joy, found it interesting. So that went all right, actually. The rest of it, I have no idea; I just did it, so we shall see. I would like this job very much; I was the youngest person interviewed by a long chalk, so I don't know. Again, we shall see. (As an aside, I really do like living in this house. It's comfortable, well-lit, warm and cosy. I get home exhausted and all interviewed-out and am made tea and told that watching Doctor Who is the best possible thing to do with my afternoon, and we all watch "Utopia" and it's marvellous. It feels like home to me.)

I'm in two minds about whether or not I want term to start. Because on the one hand, back-to-school terror, and while I can afford to jettison an afternoon on acount of brain fog now, I won't be able to do that in a couple of weeks, but on the other hand, not-doing-much is not a look that works well on me. It's ludicrous, really, but there's nothing for thinking you're wasting your life when your housemates and your boy are off at work all day while you're vaguely bored, doing the washing-up while you don't have to and Pierre, your resident itinerant Frenchman, asks you, in tones of mild disbelief, "You don't work?"

"No," I said, "I am the stay-at-home-mum-of-cat in this household."

He looked confused. I added, "I'm a baby lawyer."

"A lawyer?" There was a long pause. "But you're nice!"

Oh, I don't know. The cat is eating the ficus. I should not forget my pills.
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
Thing I did today that makes me awesome: assembled a piece of Ikea flat-pack furniture. By myself. With no screws left over. Which I am now sitting on. I feel good about myself.

Thing I did today that makes me slightly less awesome: drank a glass of water with a fly in it. Hmmm.

It is a quiet night in the Mousehole tonight, so I took a long long bath with the windows open and listened to the rain hitting metal outside, sonorously, and read Midnight's Children, which I have still not finished. I may, later, stretch to making stir-fry. With noodles. My life is terribly exciting right now, yes, indeed. That said, it's better tonight, and yesterday, and the day before, than it had been for a good long while; because while nothing has changed, outwardly - I am still busy and a little fraught, and as of today, have been rejected from potential training contracts five times over - I am feeling better about everything. My brain is not foggy. I'm still getting headaches, and still feeling abnormally tired, but they're just headaches, it's just tiredness; it's not soul-sucking loss of function, it's not like looking at everything through an oh-god-life-is-awful lens. So for that, I am very thankful. I feel almost normal, and like tomorrow will be good.

But, that leaves me in something of a dilemma. brief pause for me to talk, boringly, about me and my drugs )

So, I've been wandering about in a bit of a daze for a few days. I have informed [livejournal.com profile] very_improbable that she hasn't ever met me, that me fogged and medicated is not, well, me, and the next time she meets me, therefore, will be the first time, but nevertheless, she did come and stay for a couple of days, most of which were spent lazing about the place. On Friday night we went up to the Sleeper Service to see [livejournal.com profile] luminometrice and [livejournal.com profile] triptogenetica, who have just moved in, and who fed us handsomely. I, being somewhat drugged, got rather drunk rather quickly. No one seemed to hold this against me. It was a lovely, lovely evening, with plenty of silly jokes and ice-cream and people saying, "Well, who the fuck is Sarah Palin?"

(Yes, about Sarah Palin. As someone who was quite a vocal supporter of Hillary Clinton, it all makes me sad. I mean, I'm a woman. I'm also smart. (And these facts have nothing to do with each other.) If I got to vote in this election, I would still be smart. There's lots of debate flying about, but my thought is, this isn't sophisticated discourse; it's not sophisticated to argue that women will vote for Sarah Palin because she's a woman. Maybe some will, I don't know, but those women aren't co-referential with the women who supported Hillary Clinton, and they certainly aren't co-referential with, you know, feminists. Apologies for stating the utterly bloody obvious, but, yes, sometimes I take pleasure in doing that. Unrelatedly, she's the governor of Alaska. Wow. I am always amazed Alaska exists.)

Other things of note: the Guardian reviews a book about what we're all doing wrong; it is ten items or fewer; why being an Indian woman is difficult, delightful and occasionally just ludicrous.

And, finally. A request passed along from [livejournal.com profile] shimgray: he's looking for images and pieces of film that somehow embody the theme of "forgiveness"; more details.

And. Tomorrow we will have a kitten. Life is definitely on the up.
raven: (misc - thine own self)
I am being useless. This is clear. It is a result of unspecified neuralgia and resulting brain fog, and while I'm not in continuous pain any more I do seem to spend an awful lot of time wandering into rooms and forgetting what I went in there for and forgetting that to send cheques you need to sign them and forgetting that plugs need pins otherwise they do not fit and forgetting how to spell "appropriate" and "profession" and "commune" and other multisyllabic words I have been reliably able to spell since small-childhood.

This is... not good. Especially as I am still an unsponsored, umemployed layabout, and the odds of my getting a training contract whilst having difficulty with shoelaces seem slim to minimal. Life is certainly not all bad - last weekend, for example, Katie and Shim and I went to the zoo! And saw elephants! and it was actually the best thing ever! - but could be, you know, better.

Anyway. I mention this only because I have finally got myself registered with a GP, and had my head examined (no, really), and amoxycillin, prescription analgesia and good old-fashioned opiates having succeeded in shifting the pain but not the lack of cognitive function, they have suggested citalopram. I am not sure what I think about this. That said, this is just a placeholder - I may well be even more crap than usual when it comes to, you know, replying to email and doing what I'm supposed to and suchlike, and so I ask for patience. I now return you to your regularly-scheduled programming.

October 2017

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