the framfrim affair

Hi! Wondering what this is all about then? This is frimfram, and this is my new normal-person journal. You're under no obligation to friend here, at least not until I'm queen of the world. There's a bit more about this on frimfram here.

Edited Sunday morning because I'd already managed to cause my first upset :)

But this one has a timely political message.

Haiku2 for frimfram
hitler for god's sake go on and put in an honest vote
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Created by Grahame

I'm home alone, with a glass of wine and no will to make dinner, an asteroid-crater where my bank account oughta be, and the chips-for-breakfast blues. I want all you WriterCon people to tell me what a marvellous time you had. I'll let you have a sip of my wine...

Hey folks - there are a few people with whom I'm in mid-flow, who may wish to know that I'm moving house tomorrow, and that til I've appeased the gods of landlines, broadbands, and wireless (Poseidon, Apollo, and Aphrodite respectively) I'll be functionally offline. I can sometimes sneak online during my lunchbreak at work but that's monitored by ninjas, so I try to use it sparingly. Email's the best bet if you need to contact me.

All the best to everyone over the next few days, and I'll see you on the other side.

Rejected nicknames for my boyfriend

Fuckface
General Kitchener
The Great Suspendo
Desert Orchid
Ol' Laser-Eyes
The Milkman
Epinephrine
Emily
The Service Provider
Hizb ut-Tahrir
Haliburton
Auntie

This weekend, between bouts of Eastwood movies and playing poker on the internet, me and P. toured the Greek and Roman rooms at the British Museum. P. was mainly thrilled at how much loot the British empire had succeeded in nicking during its tenure. He's kind of a dick sometimes.
( Read more... )

For which I apologise :)

My top five reasons for not moving to London

(1) I enjoy my lungs and wish to enjoy a constructive relationship with them for the longest time possible.
(2) In Cambridge, for £4 and in 50 minutes, you can get drunk, get laid, and get dinner for a week. In London, for £4 and in 50 minutes, you can get from Mile End to Putney. And then you'd be in Putney.
(3) Ken Livingstone.
(4) I still struggle to consider renting a louse-infested cupboard in a former water tower in the middle of a marsh a steal at £100/week, even if lets you save money on food by harvesting mushrooms directly off the walls.
(4) My new mustard yellow sweater clashes with the Metropolitan line.

It occurred to me today, while complaining about Venezuela, that Hugo Chavez's name is probably not really pronounced "Hugh-go Chav-ezz", as we Brits like to render it. He's probably "Oo-go Ha-beth," right? Or is that a bit Castellano?

Some highlights of today's internet:
Can Cyborg moths bring down terrorists? The US military has developed a cyborg moth with a remote-controlled nervous system, that it plans to fly into terror camps, from where the moths will transmit streaming video back to HQ. No, really. No, *really*. Next week in the military: officers sticking pencils up their noses and saying, "wibble."

Fidel Castro: I'm fine, but I'm not preening myself to prove it. The Cuban president insists that a lack of public appearances can't be attributed to continuing poor health - he just can't be arsed with doing his hair for the cameras. “Right now, I have no time for films and photographs that require me to constantly trim my hair, beard, moustache and primp myself up every day,” flounced the 80-year-old dictator.

Editorial commissioning meeting.

F: So what's our lead Europe story for the April 2007 issue?
L: The UK was tedious, just fertiliser bombers; Turkey you can't tell which way it's gonna go... death of Yeltsin?
F: Death of Yeltsin? Death of Yeltsin was a non-story. He was out of the picture, and now he's just dead.

Last night I went to the Cambridge Beer Festival, which is what you do when you love your friends, and drank mead, which is what you do when you hate yourself. Mead. Seriously. It tastes like a garden centre. The beers I drank included one that tasted like soup, and one that tasted like a dog, so altogether it was a challenging and avant garde evening for my mouth.

They say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. They are wrong. Laughing at poorly-translated items on Chinese menus is the lowest form of wit. And coming in a close second is laughing at funny foreigners' funny names. But, one of the contenders to succeed Thabo Mbeki as ANC leader is called Tokyo Sexwale, and I can sit on that information no longer.

Hi. Wondering why I've friended you? This is frimfram. I'm setting up a new journal for 'real life' talk; lately I've been experiencing fandom drift, and I don't want to keep spamming people who only friended the first journal for Buffyverse content.

Those who like spam should feel free to rock on up!

An occasionally-updated list of whatall I'm staring at onscreen, apart from the internet.
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Latest: The Great Escape (1963) (rewatch).
This movie is the single reason for the lambasting dealt to the British sailors the Iranians bagged in March: Bartlett wouldn't've sold his story to the Mail!

An occasionally-updated list of what-all I'm reading, apart from the internet.
( The Dead Tree List )