A long time ago (July 31) in a place far, far away (my home, which is not where I am at the moment), an author (me) laid down his pen (interpret this figuratively, unless you want to imagine me marking up my laptop screen) at the end of a story (Summer of the Netherfield Witch) and declared he needed a break (because writing is so debilitating, as opposed, say, to working in a coal mine). He left you all with a vague promise (you know, the type you can actually get out of) to put the blog back on schedule in September (because my sanity waxes and wanes with the moon), most likely with another of his serialized stories (because I like taunting you all with the “continued next week” announcements).
Well, it’s September. Honest. If you haven’t noticed, take my word for it. And I am coming off a very trying month. No, it wasn’t the haggis I ate with E.J. on her birthday, though I understand why some of you might think so. And my acquaintance with the skunks and porcupines I’ve been seeing on the roads lately has stayed at the level of nodding acquaintances. No, I’ve been experiencing the world of care for the elderly in the United States. (Not me, personally, you understand; I remain eternally youthful; why, some would even say childish.) Best advice, folks: don’t get old. Admittedly the alternatives are grim, unless you so enjoy visiting cemeteries that you want to make a permanent career of it. But hold off getting old until our health insurance system for the elderly is changed from its 1960s model when Medicare was passed to something reflecting the realities of today. You might have to hold off for several years. Check out cryogenics, or at least practice holding your breath.
All of which is a long excuse as to why you won’t see a story starting today. (Also to occupy your time about as much as my stories do.) I’m hoping next week will see the start of one. I’ve got a pretty strong “in” with the author, and he’s nodding at me right now, saying “Next week.” (He does talk to himself. Also to other people. Also to imaginary people.) Honest. Take my word for it.
1) Do not worry, anything worth waiting for is well worth waiting for!!
2) Happy Birthday EJ!!
3) You ate haggis?
1. Thanks, I want to make sure it IS worth waiting for.
2. I will pass along the good wishes.
3. Yes. For EJ it was the first time, but I’d done it before, when I was in Scotland. It was nowhere near as bad as my experience eating vegemite in New Zealand!
I looked up the dictionary for haggis and without having eaten it, I’d say, maybe having Scottish blood immunizes you from such things, but it seems worse then the Jewish Ashkenazi delicacy known as Calf Foot Jelly. No, being Jewish does not immune you from such things. And BTW, good luck with the new story! You took only one month off? You’re amazing!
To move away from haggis (which really is as disgusting as snails), I might like to warn you of what happened to Merlin after his hot date. Vivian (aka Nineve—remember that name?) sealed said lusting Merlin into a cave—though some say ‘beneath a rock’, where he remains to this day. Well, that’s one way of avoiding the miseries of old age. Following the flight path of Peter Pan is another. BTW, you’ve probably guessed I have the same–shall we say, reluctance—of approaching decrepitude. Hence my series of stories regarding the semi-immortal, never aging Asars.
I await your next offering with mint-scented breath.
Which breath should be appropriate for repelling savage mutant sheep, if I should write along the lines of the 2006 NZ flick “Black Sheep.”
Bit of a sheep theme here. Isn’t the haggis made from the sheep’s intestine-y bits?
Aye, when they can’t catch the wild ones among the heather. 😉
I hear that the 19 legs. though thin and not overly meaty, are, in themselves, quite a delicacy- – – if you can catch them.