No really, I must. I’m British, it’s in the rules. Heck, even Burn Gorman is now making a living playing it uptight and repressed in crazed big-budget Japanophile monster movies. (Let us not forget that this is an actor whose introduction to me was that most sublime line of Owen Harper’s from the first episode of Torchwood: “Because I’m a twat”.) So, having lived up to a gay stereotype in my last post, I’ll live up to a British one here and apologise for the lack of signal recently.
I do have a reason, I assure you. Regrettably I’ve neither been saving the world nor enjoying the billionaire playboy lifestyle my alter ego uses to cover his tracks – I have, however, taken several steps towards supervillainy, starting with becoming completely nocturnal.
I blame it on the operation I had at the end of July. I’m sure there must be some evolutionary psychology reason for it, too – I comfort myself that I’ve become the hominid equivalent of a night watchman now that my physical state’s no use for helping out when the velociraptors attack (1). Since whinging about one’s health is tedious crap at the best of times, suffice it to say that the surgery has taken more out of me than I’d expected and I’m having to get my life reorganised very much by the baby steps approach.
My most recent baby step was to dig into my savings account and invest in a sunrise alarm clock. (See? There’s a justification for the pretty photo after all!) It proved to be a profoundly powerful piece of technology; it took me straight from having a functional and effective daily schedule which just happened to be a night shift to being jetlagged, disoriented and so tired I feel drunk. One of my pet rats recently had to have surgery too – more accurately he was sent to see the Gonad Fairy at my behest, since he was spending too much time stressed out and chewing the fur off his cagemates. In the state I’ve been in the last couple of days I had definite sympathy for him as I watched him post-op, woozily trying to lick his stitches clean. His co-ordination was so far gone that every time his front end got near his back end, the back end wandered off of its own accord. Some minutes later I found he’d figured out that sitting on his own tail made the folding in half part considerably easier; I could almost hear the train of thought as it staggered across his mind. “Cleaning. I was cleaning something. Ah yes, wash my face, that’s it.” Pause for industrious, adorable scrub-up. “Ow. My knackers hurt. I should clean those too, cleaning wounds is a good thing.” Here he would fold himself in half and reach for his (usually very noticeable) testicles. A second later: “Wait a minute… where’ve they gone?”
At this point the anaesthetic after-effects would kick in again and wipe the slate clean; he would pause, look confused, and then start the whole routine again. “What was I doing? Oh yes. I was cleaning something…”
And that, dear reader, is pretty much how I feel today. So you’ll have to forgive me if I’ve been a little quiet for a while.
(1) Yes, I know that’s a gross anachronism. Don’t spoil a good line, you pedants.