Or at least I seem to be having a war between my hair and hairpins. This is nothing really new, of course. Bobby pins find my hair repulsive, but especially when it has been under the influence of "fortifying" shampoo or somesuch whatsit that makes my hair smooth. I've taken the pins out and set my hair loose upon the world and am wearing a gigantic sweatshirt over my pajamas. That means I look like a great hairy beast from an old science fiction B movie. Rock on, B-movies.
I sat in a little restaurant drinking coffee tonight after walking down there all cold and shivery. Have I said yet that I like to be a bit cold? To feel the autumn! Yes . . . Anyhow, I was thinking how nice it would be to have walked down there all tired and foozly only to be met with warm food and a sweet aunt-like figure who always tells you how skinny you are and how you should eat more and an uncle-like person who always tells jokes and remembers things in a most eccentric fashion. Also, the sherry. I have found that on freezycold winter nights I like a small glass of sherry. It tastes warm and cozy.
Yes, I am weird. I like mead and sherry but not red wine and not beer (bar a little guinness). Weirdo. Why am I blogging about alcohol? I rarely ever drink the stuff, and I certainly didn't tonight unless they put something weird into my coffee that I didn't taste.
Oh, and I've gotten a few remarks saying that I seemed to be out of temper and I also said something about "giving up men" in my last blog entry, which led people to believe that I was lonely. Or something. They usually trail off before the conclusion. I am fine. The quote was from Bridget Jones, for pete's sake. I'm out of temper today because of some gross incompetence on my class boards. The two are very different.
And, the end of Bridget Jones was funny, but I think less of Mark Darcy for having sex with Bridget on their first date, which is rather a frightening concept after the whole point of the book comes out . . . but then Bridget isn't exactly the epitome of anything pure or . . . of average intelligence, even . . .
alas. I will stick to reading Lord Peter Wimsey novels from here on out. At least until I get a hold of the next Bridget Jones book.