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Last night I worked at the Athenaeum for a bit and tried to tune out the writers' workshop, which almost never works. Before it got going I chatted with one regular, a woman of about 40 who writes Napoleonic-era naval stories. As I had seen some of the writers at the Peter Murphy show and thus talked to them about it previously, she asked if I had seen the "Holy Smoke" tour. I hadn't. She seemed disappointed, as she has not been able to find many witnesses to the fact that Peter pulled her up on stage and sang a song to her.
Alas for that.
I later discovered at bedtime that the upstairs of our apartment had managed during the evening to become well supplied with little spiderlings. I slept poorly, with uncomfortable flashbacks to a childhood incident involving the presence of scores of spider hatchlings on the ceiling, sleeping in a top bunk, and suffering lots of itchy bites.
This morning I went to the drivers' class. I grow tired of the trio of teen lads who sit in the corner behind me (we do not, in fact, have assigned seats, but it seems to work out that way. I myself choose to sit near the restroom because I am elderly). I am nearly convinced that one of the boys suffers from something like Tourette's Syndrome, or just wishes he does, as he keeps a staccato shouted commentary going throughout the three-hour course each day.
We watched, of course, more tacky films from, at the latest, the early 90s. One was a collection of "The World's Worst Drivers" caught on police video, aired on TLC at some point ca. 1995 or so, to judge from the dates on most of the videos. One man so immortalized had run out of room in his trunk while packing camping equipment and so packed the rest under his hood, including the full canister of propane.
There was a fire.
( Speaking of camping, and even fires... )
Alas for that.
I later discovered at bedtime that the upstairs of our apartment had managed during the evening to become well supplied with little spiderlings. I slept poorly, with uncomfortable flashbacks to a childhood incident involving the presence of scores of spider hatchlings on the ceiling, sleeping in a top bunk, and suffering lots of itchy bites.
This morning I went to the drivers' class. I grow tired of the trio of teen lads who sit in the corner behind me (we do not, in fact, have assigned seats, but it seems to work out that way. I myself choose to sit near the restroom because I am elderly). I am nearly convinced that one of the boys suffers from something like Tourette's Syndrome, or just wishes he does, as he keeps a staccato shouted commentary going throughout the three-hour course each day.
We watched, of course, more tacky films from, at the latest, the early 90s. One was a collection of "The World's Worst Drivers" caught on police video, aired on TLC at some point ca. 1995 or so, to judge from the dates on most of the videos. One man so immortalized had run out of room in his trunk while packing camping equipment and so packed the rest under his hood, including the full canister of propane.
There was a fire.
( Speaking of camping, and even fires... )
