Quarantine

On the verge of collapse. My body is being swamped from all sides by a cold and chesty cough causing an imminent of my lungs. Then one arm is full of flu. The other full of polio, tetanus and diphtheria. But most important of all is the lack of lunch.

In the process of spraying red crosses over the Embassy’s doors and windows. The couple in the house across the street are watching me with a glimmer of fear in the depths of their eyes. But what do they know? They think we’re in Soviet Russia.  They’re setting fires in the middle of  street, wrapped in all manner of furs and wreathed with cloaks of black, foul-smelling smoke. They’re quite obviously insane. Suddenly, the skin-headed Welsh man next door is howling hysterically through the walls, high notes swooping and dancing through the crackle of flames. “Not now man!” I screech back at him.

I’m locking the door on all them. A sense of order must be restored! I’m going to handcuff myself to a god damn radiator. Wrap myself in duvets and eat bowls of pasta with long wooden spoons.

Only time will tell whether I make it through this thing. Time and an abundance of carbonara.

There’s something in the water…

…and I don’t mean in a shark-infestation-related fashion.

Our four intrepid ambassadors suffered in the night from horrifying visions of the mind*.

Our Mistress of Revels and Queen of Subplot was tormented in the night by visions of a terrible Edinburgh Fringe play, in which she was an audience member hounded and haunted by a poor and needy cast. One cast member was a nun (whether in character or as a person I hesitate to ask).

The Master of the Vine dreamed that he was a bear in command of the Russian navy. I hear it is difficult to control “so many boats when you’re a bear”.

The Prince of Poses suffered his subconscious constructing for him a gig by one of his favourite bands, but the gig, alas, alack, was rubbish, and he suffered terribly.

I, Goddess of Mischief, dreamed I was on a replica of the Titanic searching for the actual Titanic and I think there were dimension-portals because I kept wandering onto the actual Titanic before it sank. And that bloody Celine Dion song was playing in the background. A bad dream indeed.

What did we do to deserve such inflictions of the mind?

It’s probably something we all drank.

…The Embassy water.

 

*nightmares

Ironing eXtreme

This Sunday past I, Goddess of Mischief, witnessed the rise of the Prince of Poses unto the roof of the garage for to prove he can iron in a most manful way.

Previously he had chosen to iron curtains comme ça:

This weekend, the game was raised. Literally.

As the pearly afternoon sun sank thankfully towards the yonder roof of that other street over there, our brave protagonist climbed onto the roof of the garage, emburdened with iron, ironing board and rather nice shirt. (He, however, remained shirtless. I feel this juxtaposition is ironic. Oh, Lord, I’m so funny.)

Here is some photographic evidence of his adventures:

 

Wasn’t his photographer talented? Yes, I thought so too.

All hail the rise of IroningMan!

The Epic Battle of the Boxes and the Stairs

&lo there were many boxes in the Embassy, & they rainèd down upon the stairs alike unto manna from heaven, & then this happened:

& then, my fellow explorers, the spirit of robots vile possessed our dear friends, who were compelled to attack our intrepid narrator. There is video evidence, but I cannot work out how to add it to WordPress at this time.

& then there were shenanigans aplenty and all were laughing.

& we are united within our Embassy again

let the shenanigans begin

Romance/Tragedy/Romance

I made this little pillow drama a few years ago during a bored evening, and recently stumbled across it again on my laptop. Young me mildly amused old me, and he dances wonderfully well to the accompaniment of music or Boccaccio:

Dance you fiend, dance! …Yes, I sometimes fear for my sanity.

‘plz stup flaming da story if u do ur a foken prep n ur jelous ok’

That is a direct quotation from the story that we were reading, dramatically, intensely, hilariously, to one another last night.

So is this:

All day we sat angerly finking about Dumbelldore. We were so fucking pissed off. Well, I had one thing to look forward too- da MCR concert. It had been postphoned, so we could all go.

Anyway, I went to the common room sadly to cut classes. Draco was being all secretive.

I asked what it was and he got all mad me and started crying all hot and angsty (rnt sensitve bi guyz so hot).

“No one fucking understands me!1” he shouted angrily as his black hare went in his big blue eyes like Billie Joe in Boulevard of Borken Dreamz. He was wearing black baggy paints, a black MCR t-shirt and a black die. (geddit insted of tie koz im goffik) I was wearing a blak leather low cut top with chains all over it all over it a blak leather mini, black high held boots and a cross belly fing. My hair was al up in a messy relly high bun like Amy Lee in Gong Under. (email me if u wana see da pik)

“Accuse me? What about me!” I growled.

“Buy-but-but-” he grunted.

“You fucking bastard!” I moaned.

“No! Wait! It’s not what it fucking looks like!” he shouted.

But it was to late. I knew what I herd. I ran to the bathroom angrily, cring. Draco banged on the door. I whipped and whepped as my blody eyeliner streammed down my cheeks and made cool tears down my feces like Benji in the video for Girls and Bois (raven that is soo our video!). I TOOOK OUT A CIGARETE END STARTED TO smoke pot.

It’s called ‘My Immortal’, it’s commonly described as ‘the worst fanfic on the Internet’, and I hope that delightful excerpt is enough to explain why four adults, following the lead of the Prince of Poses, who is the one with the respectable job, and the Goddess of Mischief, who is the one embarking on her second degree, to dress up like this…

…if u dnt lyk it ur a fukin prep n u jst dnt no my existential pain of imitating that register of language any more, oh God what a relief it is to use normal words again, it was giving me headache trying to think about whether the writer of ‘My Immortal’ would even understand the concept of understanding, let alone how she’d try to spell it.

In conclusion: an evening of hilarity was had by all, and then Voldemort turned into a mime.

Flights of Fantasy

Last night I, Goddess of Mischief, suffered a terrible nightmare: the nightmare that the call centre in which I temped (not ‘tempted’, as my fingers automatically typed… how Freudian) had dragged me back to work in it once more, despite my sureness that I would never have to work there again. After sympathy spooning from the Prince of Poses, I bravely faced the nightmare down with mad shenanigans with our resident Queen of Subplot and Mistress of Revels. Here’s the evidence.

Soon, our beautiful JoseyO will return to us, and there will be tea. For now, I’m going to prepare lunch, and then prepare to go to Co-op in high-heeled shoes, just because I can.

A Sigh in Fragments

Industrial rumbling rolled through the cold summer night to topple over the 16th century walls. The chill lapped at my back then crept past to encircle the lamps and play within the echoes of illuminated stone arches. Shivering, I caressed  the glass bottle and rifled through today’s pile of illegible notes. I’d been staggering for days over Cambridge cobbles, leafing through crumbling stories of  long dead tyrants in ancient  rickety libraries, forgotten and lost up spiralled turquoise stairs. As the evening drew in, I’d taken shelter in shadowed cloisters, swigging wine beneath my rooms, trying to block out words altogether.

No, not block out.

Tear out.

For I was ripping words out of my notebook for no other reason than the cathartic release. Words blurred into shadows. Sentences fragmented. Scrawled lines flashed by in a blur of lamplight.

Chaotic.

Devoid of rhythm, or meaning.

Peaceful.

Suddenly something caught my eye. It was probably the anarchic mess of penned shapes breaking apart and shedding their lettered form. It had been scrawled by a hurried, agitated hand in the crumpled back page of my travel-battered notebook. There had obviously been little time to spare. I frowned at it, unable to tell if the depraved hand was my own. I couldn’t remember. But it didn’t matter. It added a warm glow to the lonely night in that dark and wind brushed court, reminding me of far distant Illyrian rooms.

Although that may have been the wine kicking in.

“These walls look down with half-closed eyes onto shuddering beds that heave in a symphony of warm, fragmenting, pleasured sighs. This embassy breathes sex. We sleep in bouncy-castles. Sinking into secret shadowed depths we mingle within the gentle caresses of duvet. Come by and by to my chamber. We will make this night glow! I blame the wine. Always blame the wine. This house is depraved. Eros won’t sleep tonight.

Good fuck, good fuck…”

Freezer Roulette

On the eve of Sunday last I, the Prince of Poses, and the Goddess of Mischief were joined by the lovelies Jose and Becca for gossip and good times – both of which were had. It is, however, our dining of which I blog, for on the hour of eight and one half rather peckish did I become.

Alack, little food stuffs were know to me, or the Goddess of Mischief, which could sustain we four. It was then that I did hatch a plan of most ingeniousness. A plan which I have planned a moon before but had yet to implement. The plan dear readers was this:

In our densely  compacted freezer draws was buried kilos upon kilos of penultimately consumed frozen meal components heartlessly left by erstwhile occupants. These lonely morsels, often the sole item left in their original packaging, were, frankly, hogging all the damn room in the freezer! I mean, seriously, there was no room for anything else in there!

*Ahem*

So it was dear reader(s?) that I resolved to dispatch deux oiseaux avec un rocher (that’s “two birds with one stone” in French!).  We would bake most of the left over protein, with much of the leftover carbohydrate, and boil some of the leftover veg! Whatever we did find first. To the baking tray was added:

– 2 small chicken burgers.

– 1 breaded cod.

– 1 quorn fillet.

– 1 bacon cheese thing which actually turned out to be really nice!

– Several meatballs.

– The last of a bag of crinkle cut chips.

– The last of a bag of farmhouse chips.

– The last of a bag of straight cut chips.

– 2 waffles.

And to a saucep’n was added:

– The last of a bag of peas.

– The last of a bag of sweetcorn.

– The last of another bag of peas.

– Some of a bag of mixéd veg.

There had been plans to have the several tubs of not quite finished ice cream, but they were forgotten and their fate saved for another tag (that’s German for “day”).

In this random fashion, a feast was prepared and there was much agreement that, whilst not the best meal ever had, it was certainly one of the most fun to prepare.