Right in the emotions

I know it's not my birthday until tomorrow but Celeste...*starts tearing up*

#OhGodTheEmotionsTheEmotions

You can never go back...

More personal archaeology from me today: I found the first piece of flash fiction I ever wrote hiding on a memory stick in the bottom of my drawer. I recognise that it's not as good as I thought at the time, but it raises an interesting quandary,

Do I fix this story?

On the one hand, I'm much better at writing now - hundreds of hours of frustrating effort will do that for you. You'll have your own opinions reading it below, but personally, I have two major criticisms:

1) The number of adverbs I've used would give Steven King a heart attack. I count over 20 and the whole piece is only 700 words long!

2) The atmosphere gets so laboured that it spoils the ending (you'll see what I mean).

So...there are a few good bits in it, but overall it's not great. A typical first effort, I guess.

Do I fix this story then?

I could. The adverbs could go for starters, but the structure is wrong - like I said in point 2. I suspect that no amount of effort will make it good and certainly none will ever make it saleable.

If I dug up an old, clumsily made pot, would I break it up and try to remake it because we can do better now? No. I'll let this story lie, I think. I can always look back at it and look at how far I've come, that all those hundreds of hours have actually had an effect.

The Conductor

The Conductor, dressed in his favourite shabby dark coat, slowly ascended the steps of his podium and surveyed his orchestra, who were illuminated by the brilliant midday sunlight pouring majestically into the room. Squashed into the dusty hall of the Miskatonic Orchestral Hall were his team: the string section, the brass section, the wind section and the percussionists. Throughout the bent old figure’s tenure, they had been argumentative and sloppy, resisting everything that he had tried to do but now, finally, they no longer argued and instead were a harmonious whole. He cast an evaluative eye over the assembled instruments. They all seemed to be in excellent condition; something that he had only recently been able to boast.

The Conductor turned and faced his audience. Their silence filled the space as they waited for the performance to begin; confident that yet again the Conductor would eke out another outstanding performance from his newly quiescent orchestra. The bent, elderly figure ran his withered fingers through his off-white hair and bowed stiffly.

Without waiting for any applause, he turned back to his orchestra. He tapped his baton twice on his podium. It echoed as loudly as pistol shots in the utter quiet. The small man nodded with significance at the cello section. With an energetic flourish of his baton entirely out of keeping with his decrepit physique, the Conductor began the concert. The recital was excellent: exactly how the piece had sounded in his mind – played with passion, conviction and confidence. His eyes welled with tears at the sublime beauty as the music ebbed and flowed, surged and whispered around his frail form.

At the conclusion of the piece, the Conductor wiped the corner of his coat sleeve across his damp eyes. In previous months, the orchestra might have mocked him for such an emotional indulgence, but no longer. The Conductor turned to his audience, bowed once more and limped down the stairs and through a recessed door at the side of the stage, eager to find his lunch.

Unfortunately, the electrical supply to the ovens in the cafeteria had failed, so the Conductor had to satisfy his hunger with some simple canned meat. Although the poor food was a little frustrating, he had been able to reach the counter without having to fight through hordes of well-wishing audience members and got his repast with the minimum of fuss. Usually, the lunch attendants provided a snide comment or two along with his meal, but they hadn’t bothered him like that for weeks now.

The lights in the cafeteria were similarly affected by the power failure, so the Conductor chose to consume his meat in a little park nearby. The summer wind gusted through the trees and the faint rustling noises only highlighted how quiet the city was today. The Conductor sighed in satisfaction. Although the years since the death of his wife had been very hard and people had used his emotional weakness to be extremely unkind to him, finally life was looking very good; his fortunes were in the ascendant. Even the timing of today’s concert was such a blessing. He’d repeatedly pleaded with the Director of the Miskatonic to move the timings of concerts from late evenings to midday, a performance time that his declining stamina could accommodate, but had been rudely rebuffed each time with contemptuous comments about revenues and senility. Now that the Director no longer raised those objections, the recitals had been moved to a midday slot without complaint from members of the orchestra or public.

The Conductor conscientiously placed his rubbish in the bin and ambled leisurely around the pond in the park, smiling in half amusement at the quacking of the ducks as they squabbled over this and that. Very few people ever visited the park but recently it had been deserted. The Conductor didn’t mind; the company of others did not improve his experience of his park.

He drove home from the Miskatonic Orchestral Hall in his little car and sighed in satisfaction because, despite the number of cars on the road, he encountered very little trouble with traffic and reached his little house in record time.

The little old man sat in on the beach in his garden, smelled the perfume of roses in bloom and sighed in satisfaction once again.

Ever since mutated influenza had wiped out every other member of humanity but him, life had been very good indeed.

The Home Dome is dark and full of terrors

Help, help, help. Due to a line fault, my internet's been reduced to 0.1Mbps - a 50th of what it was a few days ago. It's being repaired Saturday morning, but until then...no internet TV.

Now I appreciate that this is very much a first world problem, but it had two serious knock-on effects:

1) No Game of Thrones - the internet, Twitter and Facebook are minefields of spoilers. I am giving those (slowly loading) threats a wide berth.

2) Much more serious - no evening Teletubbies for Celeste. It's a little ritual that we watch Teletubbies after dinner but with no internet TV, I'm forced into using the one episode I accidentally downloaded on one of my tablet's apps. I have watched this one episode again and again until my brain is starting to melt.

I  hope you all choke to death on Tubby Toast

"Again! Again!" spake the Celetubby as the episode mercifully ends.

If this guy can't fix the internet on Saturday, I'm going to drown myself in Tubby Custard.

The Links Defect

Mum and Dad have bought Celeste a little golf set. She loves it very much, though she'll no longer be told how to swing a club.

I'm not sure why the Frozen dress is important to the process, but apparently it is

I dropped her off at Mum and Dad's the other day and she immediately wanted to play. I told her that'd I'd love to, but that I needed to get to work pronto. This didn't cut much ice and she set us up for a game.

"Celetste go first!" she announced happily, before using the club one handed to hit the ball three metres away (the hole was a metre in front of her).

"Daddy's go!" I was told.

I gave my ball a gentle tap with the cheap plastic club and...it bounced twice on the hard floor and went straight into the hole.

Uh oh...

Celeste fixed me with a steely gaze.

"Again," she commanded, no longer smiling.

"Sweetheart...I really..." I tried.

"Again," she commanded in a voice like ice.

"I don't think that..."

"Again," she demanded, shoving the ball back into my hand.

I was late for work.

For the Good of the Many

I’ve been thinking about the near-destruction of the Night Garden by the Haahoos again (I have a boring commute). For those who haven’t read my other thoughts on BBC’s delightful “In the Night Garden”, I have a sneaking suspicion that it is actually a bleak depiction of a post-apocalyptic society, where carnivorous inflatable monsters eat anyone who strays from the “safe zone”.

At least Patrick McGoohan only had to deal with one!

Specifically, I’ve started thinking about housing. The Gazebo is one of the few remaining structures, leading me to believe that the Haahoos have destroyed the rest. 

Sanctuary?

How did the nascent Upsy Daisy junta deal with this situation? Shelter would have to be rationed, obviously The Pontipines and Wottingers, both large families with eight children, each have one of the two remaining houses and are all crammed into the one bedroom in each. Clearly these two families are used to larger housing – perhaps even a mansion. Their diet of blancmange suggests former wealth; their current status suggests refugee.

Mr and Mrs Pontipine lose their children so often that I suspect both they have PTSD

Makka Pakka lives in a cave. It may lack furnishings, but at least it’s dry and the entrance is too small for a Haahoo to enter.

He lost his teddy bear during the evacuation

The three Tombliboos are reduced to living in a bush.

Tombliboos, form a line. Now just wait, it’s rations time

Iggle Piggle just has a boat to sleep in, suggesting that he’s either a guerrilla or that perhaps he’s fallen out of favour with the Daisy-ist regime.

The episode where Iggle Piggle dies of exposure is especially harrowing

That just leaves Generalissimo Daisy herself. Obviously as the leader of the struggle against the Haahoo menace, she has awarded the nicest bed to herself and, most importantly, only Upsy Daisy’s allowed to sleep in Upsy Daisy’s bed.

Probation

For the last few nights, I've been demoted from Bedtime Story Reader. You see, I edited the end of "Chicken Licken" to make it less...um...fatal for those involved and got caught out (the Ladybird book pictures are quite expressive!). I've had to sit in another room, while Lyn reads the bedtime story.

No longer.

I've been allowed back into Celeste's room, but I'm not allowed to help with her night time routine yet. That level of trust has got to be re-earned.

I'm allowed to sit there and play with a face flannel. If I stop, I'm being a naughty Daddy (apparently). Putting it on my head is not allowed. Putting it down my top is not allowed. I'm not sure what is allowed, but the list isn't long. How else can you play with just a face flannel?

If I'm good, I'll be upgraded to a thicker face flannel

Lyn will mess up, though. "The Gingerbread Man" is tomorrow's night time book and I know how that one ends...

The Big Cheese

Today was a day I've been looking forward to all year: the Sudbury Food Festival. Of course, it rained. Lots.

10am - 50% of the attending crowd. Not a joke. The other 3 were me, Lyn and Celeste.

The drizzle was near constant but even when it slackened off, everything was damp and the sky slate grey.

Festival! Festival! Festival!

But why go? I hear you ask through the internet wires. For gold, my friend, for gold.

Now held in an undisclosed location because I'm a grown-up now and I don't have to share.

My supply of spiced fluids has been running increasingly short and I've been getting more and more excited about a resupply (especially the Garlic and Habanero one and the Naga one). Now I don't have to stress about my dinners all tasting different - now they'll all just taste hot.

Celeste and Lyn had a great time too. Celly ate most of the cheese samples from the stall so, in the end, we felt like we had to buy a truckle of cheese from the man. I still think Celeste ate a greater mass of cheese samples than we bought.

He doesn't know what's about to hit him...

Now Celeste's body is 60% water and 40% cheddar

We then came to the cow thing. Words actually fail me describing this thing, but it turns up every year. Children are invited to sit on a stool and milk it. I don't know why.

Mascot? Simulator? Graven idol?

There is no sign and no description is given. I don't know what it is for, what it is supposed to teach or advertise.

Celeste looks as uncertain as me...

Bless her, she had a try. She even got a certificate: her first ever. Who "Transition Sudbury" are and who empowered them to give out milking certificates is unknown at the time of going to press.

And Celeste doesn't understand it either.

Ultimate, it was all about the ice-cream. And the sprinkles.

So. Much. Sugar.

It was delicious and through a combination of onion bhajees, ice-cream, seafood, wild boar burgers, chocolate brownies and lemon muffins, I think that we can say that today was not a good diet day. Thankfully, wild boar burgers are exotic enough to not be in the Slimming World book, so I'll score them as zero. Adding together everything else gives a Syns-value as long as my phone number.

Celeste is so full of good food that she's been asleep for nearly four hours.