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oh my goodness, OH MY GOODNESS

Have literally *just* finished The Hunger Games, and am kicking myself for not getting around to reading it sooner. Also a snivelling ball of snot and tears, because the ending of the book destroyed me, and thank goodness I already have the next two, I might have had to do something violent otherwise. Will be cracking straight into book two when I get home tonight.

I'd already arranged to see the film tonight with friends (hence the eventual reading of the book, today, after months of thinking about reading it)...yeah, I won't be wearing mascara.

And now to resist the urge to go look at anything HG related online, because while I am Team Peeta leik whoa (serious, unrequited love is my biggest plot weakness EVA), I don't want to be told if Katniss ever loves him back properly - I want to find out for myself.


...in a televisual sense, that is! Our familial food coma with stocking filler dvds has so far featured Ironclad and half of The Eagle. So far, The Eagle is THE slashiest film I have ever, EVER, seen. But then, I have the slashgoggles on 24/7. Mum, Dad and little bro don't seem to see it.

Posted via m.livejournal.com.

Monday, you suck.

I know work related people(team/colleagues, customers) didn't remember/know that today is the first anniversary of my Gran's death, and that's okay.
They didn't know how incredibly thin skinned I was feeling today, but again, that's okay.
I'm even okay with being really tired today because I worled all day yesterday as a favour to M, another manager, who had booked a holiday.
What's less okay is how incredibly (even more that usual) demanding and entitled everyone all acted all day today. Dudes. Shit happens. Deliveries are unsuccessful, people are off sick, humans make mistakes, fragile things break sometimes, I am the only manager in and I cannot control everything. Shut up, calm down and let me help you! AAAAAAARGH.
And then I came home, re-read what I posted this day last year and cried and cried.
I think I'm going to have tea and toast with raspberry jam (my second last jar of Gran's homemade stuff) for dinner, call my parents, and then head to bed.

Hi, my name is Helen, and I'm actually emotionally 6 years old apparently? I feel like I'm on the verge of a tantrum, and really need a hug and a million year nap!

One track mind, me?

So. I woke up at arse o'clock this morning and dragged myself through the morning routine in time to plonk myself down in front of the telly for 08:30am for the opening ceremony of the Rugby World Cup, followed by the first game (NZ-Tonga) at 09:30.

( I'm on holiday, and didn't go to bed until 3am, as usual when not working, and 8am felt very, very early, okay? Dun judge me, plz)

The game was largely blah (I expected more physicality from Tonga, and more flair from NZ), although the highlight was when Sonny Bill William's shirt sleeve was torn. First he ripped the whole sleeve off, and played in the damaged shirt for a while, then he had to change into a new one onfield. Which required (pic number 2) help, because the shirt is so damn tight, and he was aaalll sweaty. What a shame. For all of us who had to watch. *wipes tear from eye*

My kingdom for someone to link to a video of Sonny Bill doing the actual tearing off of the sleeve.

And then I spent most of the afternoon either reading, watching FoodNetwork, or on Twitter. Because I am a traitor. A Twitter traitor.

I thought about going for a nap (*), but then I remembered that the US Open Murray-Isner final was on, so I had that on in the background, whilst continuing to muck around on Twitter and reading various novels/short stories ebooks I've bought recently, but not had time to read yet (all m/m).

And then, on Twitter, @BBCWorld posted this: "Murray edges Isner to make semis http://bbc.in/pZ7Q8g". And because I am, like, 12 years old in terms of maturity, I giggle snorted like...well, me aged 12.

*Why the need for nap? Well. The RWC's in NZ, so the time difference means that the Scotland match is on at 01:30 tonight. And then the England game is at 09:30 in the morning. And I am enough of a rugby fan (it isn't all about the pretty for me) that I will be watching both. So, a late night after an early morning, followed by another early morning: a nap seemed like a good idea...one that I'm now, with an hour to go before the Scotland game starts, regretting not following through with!


Dear entirely different author from my previous post (although this is in the same fandom, and indeed the same pairing),

You, unlike EDAFMPP(ATIITSF,AITSP), definitely did need a Brit-picker. I have work in an unhealthy amount of hours, so need to head to bed soon, and after the first part of your fic, I gave up, skimmed to the bottom, read your author's note WHICH ACTUALLY INCLUDED ANOTHER BRIT-PICKERY ISSUE, WTH, so for all I know, there were more issues, but these are all I have to comment on at the moment.

a) the modern kilt, as worn to weddings ( and other formal occassions, or everyday), in Scotland, where your story is set? Yeah, not so much with the old school 'it is so difficult to pleat it in the apparently very specific way that you will need someone to help you with it' thing. Indeed, you just wrap it around yourself and buckle the buckles. It is that easy. I know this a) because I live in Scotland, and have extended Scottish family b) I'm not blind and c) I just typed 'how do I put on a kilt' into google, to make sure what I thought was right, is in fact right. Also, the very idea that the character you're putting in the kilt, supposedly Scottish, would have reached the age where his friends are getting married and wouldn't be able to get himself into a modern kilt is a joke. He would have likely been forced into one more than once as a little boy for family weddings and the like, may have worn one to school parties, would almost def have worn one to various university balls (esp as you've had him attending uni IN SCOTLAND)....it is inconceivable that he would need help with this, the way you have set the story, is what I'm saying here.
(if you meant an old school belted plaid / great kilt, you should have said so....but I highly doubt you did, given the rest of the description, which brings me to my next issue...)

b) It's called a sgian-dubh, not a dirk, and it is worn tucked into the kilt hose (with only the top of the hilt visible), not the belt. If, for some reason, you've decided that your char is not wearing traditional highland dress to the wedding in this story, you need to have made it more clear. Dirks can be work with kilts, although, given that they tend to have a foot long blade, they are not tucked into a belt, but rather, hang from a special strap from a dirk belt.

c) d'aw lookit your character going on about stereotypes of Scottish people. Cute. Esp when compared with the RIDICULOUSLY broad Moira MacTaggart wheest ya eejit (and yeah, it's eejit...edjit, as you have it, is more Irish than Scottish) type accent you've given the father of the groom. Not everyone in Scotland has the same accent, and people who, according to you, live in a castle and have a title, do tend to talk a bit more posh, like, and a bit less broad than your character. Although, what do I know? It is entirely possible that they are not in fact Scottish at all, and you've got a whole backstory for him that explains why his name is what it is. I've certainly never met a Scotsman who uses that particular shortform of that name. It's either 'full name' or 'first syllableIE', here, in my experience, not just 'first syllable'

d) I've tried not to make it obvious which story I'm talking about, (note the clumsiness above! When i could have just said the names and short forms!), but I can't, not with this next issue. You've made the father of the groom  'Lord Selkoe' "because it was the closest [you] could get to 'selkie'" That's nice, but I can do you one better. Selkirk. It's a real place, in The Borders. Google. It is your friend.

okay, I feel a little mean now. But it is late, and your story made me grumpy.

Yours, &c

Dear FicAuthor,

your fic should (and from what I have seen from being ~15% in, will) push a LOT of the right buttons for me. I have a thing for the particular flavour of AU you're writing here, and it seems reasonably well written so far.

However. I keep being thrown out of the fic (yes, at only ~15% in) by the fact that you keep calling Character A, A, even though he introduced himself as B. The physical description, nevermind the plot summary, made it clear that it is A, so until A himself, or another character, reveals that his real name is A, please refer to him as B. Even if another character, upon being told his name is B, doesn't believe that B is his real name. We haven't had any POV from A yet, so ought not to have any way of knowing that A is in fact his real name.

Trust your reader to know that he's A, using B for a reason for now.  And find other identifiers to use in action/description/speech tags, etc,. You're clearly good enough to make things like 'the brunet'/'the shorter man'/'the job title'/'the age differential identifier' etc work.

Respectfully yours,

p.s. I'm not saying you need a Brit-picker, but: Britain=/=Briton. Briton/Britain/Great Britain/United Kingdom all mean different things, and now I'm really thrown out of the fic.


I scored 24/30. 80%. ASBAR Batman would kick my ass for that. As would current DCU Red Robin and regular flavoured Robin. I'd like to think current DCU's Gotham Batman wouldn't, and would only give me a pep talk whilst doing a handstand so I didn't feel preached at. Alfred would give me a cookie and encourage me to try harder.

Writer's Block: Homeword bound

How would you describe your perfect home in ten words or less?

Library containing, self cleaning, detatched, sea viewing, parquetry flooring, bargainous.


UGH. Remember two weeks ago when I was moaning about work? Yeah, I have to deal with the person causing all the drama tomorrow. What is wrong with me? I'm the one with the power (allegedly) in this situation, and yet I am really intimidated by her hysterical flavour of entitlement.

Apparently, being trained to be able to deal with this shit is the reason I get paid the big bucks. Except I haven't, I'm not really able, and I don't. At all.


Also, felt a little fragile all day today after costume party last night. Went as Miss Piggy, had a blast, but must have eaten or drunk something dodgy, because I spent half of last night (TMI ALERT) on the loo, with an extremely upset stomach (/TMI). So, extra reason not to want to go in tomorrow - I just want to sleep and sleep and sleep for a week.

Epic day of rugby, go!

Went to bed at stupid o'clock  last night  this morning, but serendipitously, woke up in time for the BBC build up to the beginning of the Scotland-Italy match. As awesome as an Italian win would be (two wins, omg wtf?!?!, etc), I'm cheering for Scotland, as usual. Thoughts with > 5 mins left to play: I think I may have finally forgiven Nick de Luca for his butterfingeriness of 2008, Sean Lamont is still as awesome as when I was screaming my head off for him at the Hong Kong 7s a decade ago, and Chris Paterson is a total ledge.

H'obviously, will be rooting for an English grand-slam (I'd joke about my Dad never allowing me to darken his threshhold ever again if I didn't support England, but I do, genuinely! Take last week as an example - I was a little torn, and would have been over the moon had Scotland pulled a win out of the bag, but there was no doubt which side I was squealling at the screen for). I have a feeling that Ireland will run England verra close, but I think England'll do it. (ETA of full time: wow, not what I was expecting at all, well done Ireland!) I think France will come out on top in their match against Wales, but it ought to be a good game to watch, too. ... and by typing that, I think I've made up my mind about whether or not to go out for belated birthday drinks for K. I would feel guiltier, but I'm kind of broke (payday next week!), I have a costume party to go to tomorrow that I don't want to feel too rough for, and I only really know K through A - apart from them, I won't really know anyone else who's going. And I have a headache. Yeah, that last one sounds weasel-y and crap, but I do feel less than 100%, and the prospect of washing my hair and putting proper clothes on, and heading out into the cold fills me with lethagy and dread: there is rugby and cups of tea and pyjama bottoms at home in my wee flat. Also, laundry and other chores that need doing, but eh, I'll do them tomorrow before heading out to the party. I suppose I ought to let K and A know, then eh? Where's my mobile...?




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