holding pattern

Hello my very dears,

A little frazzled this week from the Haus of Deri-Bowen. I’m desperately trying to find a flatmate before the beginning of October. It’s not going brilliantly. My back-up plan is eat a huge rent payment in October, and move in November if I have to. (I suppose this is the advantage of being able to fit all my earthly goods in a taxi — moving isn’t the headache it was in Philly!) I’d rather not, but so far no one seems to be interested in the room. Any advice, from those of you who have played letting agent?

In the non-whingy section of my life, I’ve at least been writing up a storm, including finishing (well, nearly) a story that I technically started almost five years ago now! What the hell! It’ll be a lovely little novella when I’m done, and if it’s any good, it’ll be my first historical story so far. So, hooray for all that; I don’t actually like my limitless leisure time, but I am managing to get stuff done within it.

And, finally, a little drabble I wrote for the Speak Its Name shindig on Talk Like A Pirate Day:

“Mr Winston, you are not required to report the rising moon,” Screechin’ Billy gently informed the spotty little oik before him. The aforementioned Mr Winston’s mouth opened and shut, not unlike several species of eel found primarily in the Caribbean. Screechin’ Billy wondered for a moment what would happen when the two unfortunate creations met face-to-face, and decided to hold a little scientific experiment when they got to Antigua. Being a gentleman pirate, one was rather expected to have outside interests, and Screechin’ Billy fancied himself something of a naturalist.

When Mr Winston had scuttled back to lookout – presumably to spot things more dangerous or useful than the moon that was just crowning the horizon – Screechin’ Billy turned back to the little class gathered around him. “Now,” he continued. “When you board the ship, there may be fine ladies about, and they’ll be sorely disappointed if they don’t get a good scare from ye. Let me hear you all ‘arr’, then.”

Morris, who sported pockmarks instead of spots, let out a noise not unlike a cat that had just been stepped on. Screechin’ Billy stifled another sigh, and got to work with the lads. These training voyages might have been doing the pirating community a valuable service, but they were hell on a man’s patience…

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