I'm not really a tea fangirl.
But appears that when it comes to Earl Grey, I might very well be.
See, I don't drink a lot of different types of tea, I rarely use a teapot and frankly loose tea is a right old faff.
Most of the time I drink Asda's redbush, which is lovely and light and not bitter in the slightest. Then there's my morning coffee, decaff, usually Nescafe but I don't mind so long as it's not Maxwell House (which some people probably like but I absolutely can't stand).
Earl Grey is my writing tea - enough caffeine to give me a bit of much-needed energy, but not so much as to give me the jitters. I probably drink a few cups a week. But! Earlier this week, my supply of the miracle drink RAN OUT.
SO! What's a girl to do?
Get some more, you very sensibly say.
And I did. But did I get the proper, approved-by-the-Earl-himself stuff? No! I bought Sunshine Grey, which I thought would be all lemony and lovely.
It's nice, don't get me wrong, I like it, but it's not, y'know, AMAZING.
Instead of drinking that, then, and instead of drinking my very last bag of Lady Grey, I went to the back of the cupboard and dug out the somewhat crushed box of Typhoo EG.
Cue sadface.
Twinings EG: The second best thing ever in the history of tea. Strong-ish and tea-flavoured but the bitterness isn't overpowering. The bergamot gets stronger the more you brew it, going from barely-there to a nice undercurrent. Yummy tea. Great to get the words a'flowing.
Lady Grey, also Twinings: The best thing ever in the history of tea. Lighter, fluffier, more citrus'y, slightly more floral. Not overpowering even if you leave it for ages while you track down new batteries for the Wii remote. Don't really know what it's like with writing, because I got it in a selection box and I only had five bags to start with so I leave it for special occasions / times when I can actually focus on the loveliness of what I'm drinking.
Sunshine Grey, see above: Nice tea. Too easily overpowered by milk, so don't even go there; extremely gentle tea. Nice but not enough of a kick for my personal taste. I haven't tried it with writing yet. I will, in a minute.
Typhoo EG: Too much black tea, not enough citrus, not enough bergamot. But if you like a strong black tea flavour and only a hint of Grey-ness, then you'll probably really like it. Not too bad for writing.
Those are all the ones I've tried - sadly I don't have the money for Whittards, though it might be nice to try what I've nicknamed in my head the poshest tea on the planet, and, in moments of fangirly weakness, the Mycroft Holmes Tea.
Speaking of fangirlyness, I really want to try Adagio. But the shipping costs are just...no, and the UK branch doesn't seem to stock fandom tea.
Having a quick scan, the River Song looks lovely (Earl Grey (obv.) coconut, lemon. All my favourite things!), the Office Romance, Captain Carrot (peach, blood orange, EG)....ah, too many.
Anyway, that's enough for today and my tea-based ramblings!
~Alice
Saturday, 23 March 2013
Friday, 15 March 2013
#2: To Escapism and Instant Coffee
(A/N: Title is from a Hunter S. Thompson quote if I remember correctly)
9th June 1756
I miss coffee.
It sounds stupid, really, but here I am, tied up in a dark, dingy cellar with my best friend and the only person in the whole space-time continuum who could save me all the way over in another century. I've been here a week now, by my reckoning - and I was always good with time – and yes I've been fed and watered, but the one thing I really, really miss, is sitting in a nice cafe with Lucius (the aforementioned best friend) drinking a cup of coffee and fighting over who gets the last bit of the lemon drizzle cake.
There's this place in twenty-first century Bath that serves the best lemon drizzle cake.
I miss it. Once I'm out of here, I'll go, even if Lucius is a hundred years behind me.
I miss him, the arrogant git.
He's a time-traveller, as you may have guessed. He works for the Crown, chasing murderers and other unsavoury sorts through time. He's in seventeenth century France right now, tracking down a man called Edgar Mordecai.
Mordecai's a mad bastard. I mean, seriously batshit-crazy.
He's a necromancer though, and they’re all a bit insane. And it explains why he has me in the dark and dingy cellar of one of those big Gothic castles. The old villainous flair for the dramatic, you know. So yes, last week I was kidnapped by Mad Mordecai and trapped in his cellar, while my best friend and general bane of my existence Lucius Rush gallivanted around France.
France, of all places. If people were countries, Lucius would be France. I mean, Lucius is a pure-breed Londoner, but he's always stylish and loves his wine and art and opera and he especially loves dramatic lazing about. He has the panache for it, you see. But he needs someone with fast reflexes and a bit of common sense, and that's me. I'm the Watson to his Holmes, if you like.
Only now I'm here, trapped, and Good God this is annoying.
You know what else I miss?
Being able to say, “I know, I'll go and see Shakespeare at The Globe.”
Or whatever else tickles your fancy.
I miss that freedom.
I miss coffee more, but that's not what you’re meant to say, is it? No poet ever wrote, “I'm trapped and alone and I wish I had my freedom back but I'd sell my soul for a cup o' joe.”
I shouldn’t say that, not really.
You never know who’s listening.
16th June 1756
Alright.
I should tell you, I'm not some weak woman. Woman, yes. Weak, no. And I wouldn't usually tell you this kind of thing, but I'm bored.
Did I tell you my name? It’s Meg. Meg Chrona.
I've been Lucius's 'assistant' for the better part of six years, now. My dad was an assassin. He taught me the tricks. So I'm five-foot-nothing of flaming-haired badassery, with nothing to do, and it's boring.
People underestimate me. They see six-foot-two, gun-and-sword-and-top-hat-toting Lucius Rush and their eyes just skip over me.
They don't know I learned sword-fighting in Toledo, or that I can draw, aim, and fire in less than a second. They don't see the custom-made katana hidden in my skirt and the lock-picking set disguised as hatpins. Or the guns lashed to my thighs. Or the knife in each boot. Or the six years spent learning martial arts in the dojos of Japan.
I like it that way, to be honest. If they just think I'm Lucius's...oh, I don't know. Assistant? Bit on the side? Anyway, if they think I'm harmless, it makes it so much sweeter when I'm the one beating them six ways to Sunday.
It's annoying, though, when they don't underestimate you and stab you in the neck with a syringe full of sedative and lock you in a cellar.
Very annoying.
I don't mind too much, though. I mean, this is the fifth time I've been kidnapped in as many years. It's all getting a bit old-hat, to be frank. In another week or two Lucius will come crashing through the reinforced steel doors and yell “Miss me, my dear?”
I'll say “You're late,” he'll say “Better than being early,” and try to check me for injuries while pretending to be totally disinterested, and off we go to the nearest Starbucks. Other purveyors of bad coffee are available.
He's a complete git.
Still miss him, though.
I miss coffee more.
23rd June 1756
Three weeks.
Getting a bit ridiculous now.
Have you forgotten me, Lou?
How'd that song go? Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou, my daaaaaaarling. Is that it? Can't remember. I do that, sometimes. Torture him with anachronisms. He really hates it when I sing ABBA songs in Victorian hansoms. Well, he hates it when I sing ABBA songs regardless of when we are. He hates it more when I get him addicted to custard creams or cookie dough ice-cream and then make him go somewhere they don't have it. Like 1410. They don't have anything good in 1410.
We met in 1834. He was holding interviews at the Aion Club for an assistant. I should say I met him in 1834 at the Aion Club. I don't know when he first met me.
Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou, my daaaaaarling.
Oh, come on, where are you?
When are you?
I bet he's forgotten me and he's just lazing about in Paris, drinking coffee.
Git.
30th June 1756
I'm sick of this now.
sicksicksicksickboredboredBORED
My wrists hurt.
My feet hurt.
My back hurts.
Mordecai keeps coming in and laughing at me.
It's been ages since I had a mocha.
3rd July 1756
“Miss me, my dear?” the old git says, pushing the door open – dramatically, of course – and strolling in in his bloody long coat and his bloody big hat and his bloody stupid face.
“You're late.”
“Better than being early,” he says as he de-manacles me.
I grin at him as he puts his arm around me to hold me up, as he not-so-discreetly checks for bruised or broken ribs. I’m wobbly on my feet and I can see him watching in his peripheral vision. I think he thinks I’ve got a twisted ankle. I haven’t, and I tell him so.
He shrugs a one-armed shrug. “Good,” he says, in his most detached tone. He helps me out into the corridor, where three guards lie in pools of their own blood. My skirt drags in it and I make a face. Lucius glances down.
“I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning,” he says.
“Yes, you will.”
He laughs, very softly. Then: “Where to?”
“Bath. 2009.”
He nods, and takes out his pocket watch. He turns it to the right year, and then we close our eyes.
4th July 2009
I tap my fingers against the mug as I stare at Lucius.
He stares back.
First one to look away gets the last bite of the lemon drizzle cake, which is almost as good as I remember.
I sip my cappuccino without breaking eye-contact
Turns out I missed him more.
9th June 1756
I miss coffee.
It sounds stupid, really, but here I am, tied up in a dark, dingy cellar with my best friend and the only person in the whole space-time continuum who could save me all the way over in another century. I've been here a week now, by my reckoning - and I was always good with time – and yes I've been fed and watered, but the one thing I really, really miss, is sitting in a nice cafe with Lucius (the aforementioned best friend) drinking a cup of coffee and fighting over who gets the last bit of the lemon drizzle cake.
There's this place in twenty-first century Bath that serves the best lemon drizzle cake.
I miss it. Once I'm out of here, I'll go, even if Lucius is a hundred years behind me.
I miss him, the arrogant git.
He's a time-traveller, as you may have guessed. He works for the Crown, chasing murderers and other unsavoury sorts through time. He's in seventeenth century France right now, tracking down a man called Edgar Mordecai.
Mordecai's a mad bastard. I mean, seriously batshit-crazy.
He's a necromancer though, and they’re all a bit insane. And it explains why he has me in the dark and dingy cellar of one of those big Gothic castles. The old villainous flair for the dramatic, you know. So yes, last week I was kidnapped by Mad Mordecai and trapped in his cellar, while my best friend and general bane of my existence Lucius Rush gallivanted around France.
France, of all places. If people were countries, Lucius would be France. I mean, Lucius is a pure-breed Londoner, but he's always stylish and loves his wine and art and opera and he especially loves dramatic lazing about. He has the panache for it, you see. But he needs someone with fast reflexes and a bit of common sense, and that's me. I'm the Watson to his Holmes, if you like.
Only now I'm here, trapped, and Good God this is annoying.
You know what else I miss?
Being able to say, “I know, I'll go and see Shakespeare at The Globe.”
Or whatever else tickles your fancy.
I miss that freedom.
I miss coffee more, but that's not what you’re meant to say, is it? No poet ever wrote, “I'm trapped and alone and I wish I had my freedom back but I'd sell my soul for a cup o' joe.”
I shouldn’t say that, not really.
You never know who’s listening.
16th June 1756
Alright.
I should tell you, I'm not some weak woman. Woman, yes. Weak, no. And I wouldn't usually tell you this kind of thing, but I'm bored.
Did I tell you my name? It’s Meg. Meg Chrona.
I've been Lucius's 'assistant' for the better part of six years, now. My dad was an assassin. He taught me the tricks. So I'm five-foot-nothing of flaming-haired badassery, with nothing to do, and it's boring.
People underestimate me. They see six-foot-two, gun-and-sword-and-top-hat-toting Lucius Rush and their eyes just skip over me.
They don't know I learned sword-fighting in Toledo, or that I can draw, aim, and fire in less than a second. They don't see the custom-made katana hidden in my skirt and the lock-picking set disguised as hatpins. Or the guns lashed to my thighs. Or the knife in each boot. Or the six years spent learning martial arts in the dojos of Japan.
I like it that way, to be honest. If they just think I'm Lucius's...oh, I don't know. Assistant? Bit on the side? Anyway, if they think I'm harmless, it makes it so much sweeter when I'm the one beating them six ways to Sunday.
It's annoying, though, when they don't underestimate you and stab you in the neck with a syringe full of sedative and lock you in a cellar.
Very annoying.
I don't mind too much, though. I mean, this is the fifth time I've been kidnapped in as many years. It's all getting a bit old-hat, to be frank. In another week or two Lucius will come crashing through the reinforced steel doors and yell “Miss me, my dear?”
I'll say “You're late,” he'll say “Better than being early,” and try to check me for injuries while pretending to be totally disinterested, and off we go to the nearest Starbucks. Other purveyors of bad coffee are available.
He's a complete git.
Still miss him, though.
I miss coffee more.
23rd June 1756
Three weeks.
Getting a bit ridiculous now.
Have you forgotten me, Lou?
How'd that song go? Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou, my daaaaaaarling. Is that it? Can't remember. I do that, sometimes. Torture him with anachronisms. He really hates it when I sing ABBA songs in Victorian hansoms. Well, he hates it when I sing ABBA songs regardless of when we are. He hates it more when I get him addicted to custard creams or cookie dough ice-cream and then make him go somewhere they don't have it. Like 1410. They don't have anything good in 1410.
We met in 1834. He was holding interviews at the Aion Club for an assistant. I should say I met him in 1834 at the Aion Club. I don't know when he first met me.
Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou, my daaaaaarling.
Oh, come on, where are you?
When are you?
I bet he's forgotten me and he's just lazing about in Paris, drinking coffee.
Git.
30th June 1756
I'm sick of this now.
sicksicksicksickboredboredBORED
My wrists hurt.
My feet hurt.
My back hurts.
Mordecai keeps coming in and laughing at me.
It's been ages since I had a mocha.
3rd July 1756
“Miss me, my dear?” the old git says, pushing the door open – dramatically, of course – and strolling in in his bloody long coat and his bloody big hat and his bloody stupid face.
“You're late.”
“Better than being early,” he says as he de-manacles me.
I grin at him as he puts his arm around me to hold me up, as he not-so-discreetly checks for bruised or broken ribs. I’m wobbly on my feet and I can see him watching in his peripheral vision. I think he thinks I’ve got a twisted ankle. I haven’t, and I tell him so.
He shrugs a one-armed shrug. “Good,” he says, in his most detached tone. He helps me out into the corridor, where three guards lie in pools of their own blood. My skirt drags in it and I make a face. Lucius glances down.
“I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning,” he says.
“Yes, you will.”
He laughs, very softly. Then: “Where to?”
“Bath. 2009.”
He nods, and takes out his pocket watch. He turns it to the right year, and then we close our eyes.
4th July 2009
I tap my fingers against the mug as I stare at Lucius.
He stares back.
First one to look away gets the last bite of the lemon drizzle cake, which is almost as good as I remember.
I sip my cappuccino without breaking eye-contact
Turns out I missed him more.
I Come Bearing Gifts
Yes!
Gifts!
Two of them!
Y'see, I entered two competitions this week and I won NEITHER OF THEM, so you get them instead. Aren't I lovely?
1) "Rise"
It used to bustle.
It doesn't any more.
Paper stacked in in-trays and out-trays, dust blurring the words. Computers, too, the keyboards bent and broken. Staplers sit, jaws wide, on the desks – looking for fingers and papers to bite. Chairs with their legs torn and tangled. Windows cracked and glass scattered. The bins hold nuclear ooze, wax paper rising with colours all matted and dirtied. Unidentified green crawls up the walls in specks, the scent of it heavy in the air. The carpet bubbles and the floor bounces on woodworm weakened joints.
There's a tie, purple spotted silk, that hangs over a chair. The body long since gone, every tired bone bagged up and zipped away, out of sight, out of mind. Some things never change. He died of over-work, says the report. In neat-and-tidy diction, neat-and-tidy cuts. Neat-and-tidy stitches. Neat-and-tidy death.
He's not the only one.
Red-faced blue-faced, strangled by their independent ties. They lie on metal slabs in their hundreds, their thousands, gray-faced, blue-suited, without their independent ties (of purple spotted silk).
Time stands.
Trips over its own feet.
The tracks are worn, the lines are read. The papers are signed and the company dead. Hush hush. Hush hush. Spiders spin, white wire on the window sill. Rats shouldn't be up so high. Shouldn't run a sunken ship. But what else makes a life where all is gone? Jumping from desk to desk in dark brown dashes, spelling a lament in Morse?
S-O-S
S-O-S
Why would you save a sunken ship? The air and the weight and the waste have battered down the brick. It won't stand for long. It won't. It's too late for that, it's gone, it's dead, nothing left but the silence and the creak. There's nothing for it, now. The bodies have gone and the building is rotting from the inside out and the outside in (it was rotting long before the signs were seen).
Is that it, the lament of a long dead ship? Whose bones and brain still function but whose soul has fled to the supply closet in the sky? Is that it? Will they come? Can you hear them if you listen in close, if you put your ear to the slatted blinds and concentrate? The wrecking balls and the cranes, running on their rolling feet. The dynamite and hard-hatted men.
There's only one thing left to do.
You know what it is, you know the myths. You can see the ashes around you even now.
There's only one thing left to do.
Rise.
#2 is in the next post, because it's longer. See you in a minute!
~Alice
Gifts!
Two of them!
Y'see, I entered two competitions this week and I won NEITHER OF THEM, so you get them instead. Aren't I lovely?
1) "Rise"
It used to bustle.
It doesn't any more.
Paper stacked in in-trays and out-trays, dust blurring the words. Computers, too, the keyboards bent and broken. Staplers sit, jaws wide, on the desks – looking for fingers and papers to bite. Chairs with their legs torn and tangled. Windows cracked and glass scattered. The bins hold nuclear ooze, wax paper rising with colours all matted and dirtied. Unidentified green crawls up the walls in specks, the scent of it heavy in the air. The carpet bubbles and the floor bounces on woodworm weakened joints.
There's a tie, purple spotted silk, that hangs over a chair. The body long since gone, every tired bone bagged up and zipped away, out of sight, out of mind. Some things never change. He died of over-work, says the report. In neat-and-tidy diction, neat-and-tidy cuts. Neat-and-tidy stitches. Neat-and-tidy death.
He's not the only one.
Red-faced blue-faced, strangled by their independent ties. They lie on metal slabs in their hundreds, their thousands, gray-faced, blue-suited, without their independent ties (of purple spotted silk).
Time stands.
Trips over its own feet.
The tracks are worn, the lines are read. The papers are signed and the company dead. Hush hush. Hush hush. Spiders spin, white wire on the window sill. Rats shouldn't be up so high. Shouldn't run a sunken ship. But what else makes a life where all is gone? Jumping from desk to desk in dark brown dashes, spelling a lament in Morse?
S-O-S
S-O-S
Why would you save a sunken ship? The air and the weight and the waste have battered down the brick. It won't stand for long. It won't. It's too late for that, it's gone, it's dead, nothing left but the silence and the creak. There's nothing for it, now. The bodies have gone and the building is rotting from the inside out and the outside in (it was rotting long before the signs were seen).
Is that it, the lament of a long dead ship? Whose bones and brain still function but whose soul has fled to the supply closet in the sky? Is that it? Will they come? Can you hear them if you listen in close, if you put your ear to the slatted blinds and concentrate? The wrecking balls and the cranes, running on their rolling feet. The dynamite and hard-hatted men.
There's only one thing left to do.
You know what it is, you know the myths. You can see the ashes around you even now.
There's only one thing left to do.
Rise.
#2 is in the next post, because it's longer. See you in a minute!
~Alice
Thursday, 14 March 2013
Next Chapter
Letting everyone know that the next chapter won't be tomorrow - it'll probably be next Friday instead.
~Alice
~Alice
Saturday, 9 March 2013
Thursday, 7 March 2013
Bad Jumpers, etc.
Hello!
If you've been keeping up to date with Gargoyle (and if you're not, why aren't you?), you may have noticed that I've mentioned that Emilia...doesn't have the most 'normal' taste in jumpers. Or sweaters, for our American friends.
So! Yes!
I just saw this picture:
And I thought: Arthur Darvill is definitely the male version of Emilia. Because that jumper's just...awful. In a good way. Which is slightly awkward because I picture him as Joe. Perhaps he and Emilia are long-lost twins or something (don't worry, they're not).
~Alice
P.S. The next chapter will probably be up sometime this weekend.
P.P.S I mis-wrote weekend as year. I hope that's not an omen.
If you've been keeping up to date with Gargoyle (and if you're not, why aren't you?), you may have noticed that I've mentioned that Emilia...doesn't have the most 'normal' taste in jumpers. Or sweaters, for our American friends.
So! Yes!
I just saw this picture:
And I thought: Arthur Darvill is definitely the male version of Emilia. Because that jumper's just...awful. In a good way. Which is slightly awkward because I picture him as Joe. Perhaps he and Emilia are long-lost twins or something (don't worry, they're not).
~Alice
P.S. The next chapter will probably be up sometime this weekend.
P.P.S I mis-wrote weekend as year. I hope that's not an omen.
Friday, 1 March 2013
Two Things
So! As you'll probably have guessed by know, I'm being shoved around by writer's block this week, so no new stuff for a little while. I'm sorry. It'll probably be late next week.
Also, I made this*:
It's a flyer for my book so I can circulate it locally. I've also changed the cover to it.
That's it for today - see you later, folks!
~ Alice
* I tried to trace the gargoyle image and I couldn't (I also thought it looked old enough that it was out of copyright) - but if the age is an effect and it's yours or you know whose it is, please tell me and I'll take it down, no fuss and my sincerest apologies. Thanks.
Also, I made this*:
It's a flyer for my book so I can circulate it locally. I've also changed the cover to it.
That's it for today - see you later, folks!
~ Alice
* I tried to trace the gargoyle image and I couldn't (I also thought it looked old enough that it was out of copyright) - but if the age is an effect and it's yours or you know whose it is, please tell me and I'll take it down, no fuss and my sincerest apologies. Thanks.
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