Anyhoo (yes "anyway" was already taken).

So it turns out:

1. That there should be no impact on my psychological state yet, so the return of bouncy, skippy me is purely placebo (that or it was a sunny day, but not as cold as the last sunny day).
2. That these little things can cause increased activity (which it didn't mention in amongst the breast milk warnings) so taking them after supper is not such a good idea, and this might explain sleeping between the hours of midnight and three in the morning.
3. But I'm not sure if the pattern of lying awake hot and with churning guts, sleeping, waking up cold and lonely, with churning guts, then rapidly warming again, with churning guts, means my body was reacting to the drug or just that someone changed the settings on the heating.
4. That it's not just worms that serotonin stimulates peristalsis in. Getting up to go to the loo in the middle of the night is weird when it's not the bladder that's the driving force.
5. That the faint sense of saturation that I got soon after taking it, which felt like having been to a friend's for a dinner, having drunk during it, and then paced moderation is met with a heavily alcoholic dessert, so one of those occasions when one is early drunk, swimming in good humour and energy, limbs guilelessly wanton so staying at the table for the time being, saving face and crockery, happy, with ears ablaze with raw alcohol. Yes, that feeling, which I got temporarily, from a very little pill, is going to take some getting used to. I'm impressed the way that while making me feel drunk it even made my ears hot, because that's a surefire way of being able to tell I'm drunk.

Anyhoo,

[Via QI] MEUPAREUNIA n. Sexual activity enjoyed by only one of the participants.

Is it right that I respond to that concept with "oh, I know that"? That and wondering if dedecoambula is actually a word.

One day my prince will come (except that's not really the... moving on).

Anyway, so the title of this post was going to be "goodbye cruel world".

Not in the offing oneself sense (and no, in answer to that seemingly much repeated question, I have not "actively attempted to kill [myself] or anyone else". I'm not sure how one passively does this), but instead perhaps, hopefully, turning off the cruel. Although really it's more rendering myself incapable of perceiving it. That and be able to produce breast milk (ooh, recorded side effects are fun).

So yes, someone has finally noticed that perhaps I'm not the jolliest fellow that ev' there was, and apparently they can do things about that now.

So in a plot twist as shocking and unsignposted as the gymnastics teacher with the alarm clock (well, from the author's perspective), I'm off to maraud the marvels of modern medicine. Except apparently it often causes side effects remarkably like the symptoms it's meant to treat. That and turns some people's brains off.

This could be fun (but I might not notice).

Anyhoo,

PS. 'Tis done. The packaging is annoying, because today is Tuesday but the end one is Monday. This is going to irritate me for at least a fortnight (when I can start a new strip and hold the spare Monday until the end). And about an hour after taking it something's kicked in suddenly. It just went. The light seems lighter but more diffuse and my body seems to have split into my oddly light shoulders and my warm, heavy, churning gut (the churning started about ten minutes after swallowing). The white balance of the screen keeps cycling too.

PPS. Oh, it feels like I'm a bit drunk; the world won't quite sit still and my limbs have gone all gangly (or ganglier). That and I keep getting fleeting, intense bursts of tastes and smells (chalky hospitals, dark nicotine). And I didn't notice I types 'limbs' with an n, whereas usually I'd feel there was something wrong without knowing what. I think I should probably just go to bed. Night, John-boy.

"Adam Lay Ybounden's latest album".

Anyhoo,

Anthropomorphising: Watching a BBC nature documentary, seeing predators chasing a herd of prey, seeing the footprints that show they've done that scene before.

Anyhoo,

Crystal Tipps and Alistair

This is what my brain has concluded the lyrics are to some John Grant song that's currently stuck in my head.

Guess who went to see the film that presumably lead to me discovering John Grant, except it was through unattributing parts of the internet, so I don't know for certain.

Weekend is a magnificent film, if one can use such an embiggening word about something which toys with absurdity of the mundane, digs out beauty in the banal, and then deftly sticks your heart between a rock and a passing glacier.

It's fantastically observed though anything but fantastical; again another superlative fighting the spirit of the film. Just human, oh so achingly human. But it's so gallingly accurate (ignoring the "which drug was that?" bits; I am so much a small town boy) that I found myself uncertain if the actors and director are brilliant or if there just wasn't much acting.

Yet life isn't quite as adept as that, so brilliance it is.

Out now, nationwide, so that'll be four Odeons dotted round the country (name the gayest places in the UK. Yep, those, and Richmond). Marvellous country, isn't it? Do we wish to chalk it up to the cowardice of the bookers or the lumpenness of the proletariat?

Best not to answer that.

BTW, even the Telegraph gave it five stars. The Telegraph. Gay sex and drugs. Five stars from The Telegraph. How good does a film have to be to get that under those conditions?

Anyhoo,

PS. Yesterday's diary entry reads Stefaniishly "Weekend Angel Holborn Lego". I blame LondonDan.

Parce-que les nuits sont sombres donc j'espere qu'il sera Noel demain:

Swayed by the power of the holy spirit, much?

Zut alors and such.

Anyhoo,

"Not to be confused with Gays."

And there is possibly the best line in Wikipedia.

Anyhoo,

When flicking through tweets and discovering that HMS Belfast has been holed and lies broken-backed, do try to remember—before wondering if it was an errant Cory's barge or a Thames Clipper that struck her—that one is subscribed to an account doing the second world war as it happens.

Also when writing a blog post do try to remember to go to blogger first rather than just start typing in the address bar on the grounds that Google will know what to do with it.

Anyhoo,
Ctrl-W

Je suis une tad kaputt, parce-que...

I see this:

I hear "bittersweet strawberry, marshmallow bist schoen"


Anyhoo,

PS. Is it just my imagination?

"If I ever got into a real relationship, that’s when I would tell everyone the truth."

Except it never quite works out like that. And sometimes I need to remember that thing about diving boards.

Anyhoo,

What is it with people thinking they can forbid me from things?

The unsent reply:

Grow some dignity.
---
And in other news, The Railway Children, currently at Oakworth International, is quite good. And I gained a Malteaser there (during the interval the bag was on my brother's coat, so I assumed it was the SIL's and thus faintly all right for me to take one from. Turns out the row behind had dropped theirs. They didn't say anything, just picked up the bag at the end of the show and threw it away).

Still think emblazoning Waterloo Post-International with "Welcome to Yorkshire" is faintly cruel (the dirty, dated undercroft is grim, but it's not that grim. Ok, so the comment was more about confusing visitors [well, they might have come up from a ship at Southampton. Maybe], but it's bizarre how old the new becomes; CRT public information screens?).

And now to wonder if the ambiguously worded confirmation email means I ought worry about post not turning up or if the tickets to faintly improbable thing to see with one's mother (lastminute, rapidly vanishing offer, she'd complained the last time I mentioned going to something on my own) are going to be at the box office on the day.

Anyhoo,