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I Like Detective Stories. And Detectives.
Well, allow me to introduce myself to you as an advocate of Ornamental Knowledge. You like the mind to be a neat machine, equipped to work efficiently, if narrowly, and with no extra bits or useless parts. I like the mind to be a dustbin of scraps of brilliant fabric, odd gems, worthless but fascinating curiosities, tinsel, quaint bits of carving, and a reasonable amount of healthy dirt. Shake the machine and it goes out of order; shake the dustbin and it adjusts itself beautifully to its new position.-Robertson Davies, Tempest-Tost
Just the usual fangirl geekery, with quite a high level of ridiculousness. You know, Doctor Who, Sherlock Holmes, Cabin Pressure, Frankenstein, science stuff, about a million books, a slightly high level of curiosity, and a Cheshire cat for good measure. I have no control over my enthusiasm. Oh, and sometimes I inflict my art on you. Sorry.
In the words of Neil Gaiman in Sandman: The weirdness has been getting worse.
Oh, and anyone who guesses who the writing lady in the sidebar image gets nothing in particular, but tell me if you know...
Currently sojourning in England, questing after the wild hedgehog. (Not really but sort of.)
Previously grinningcheshire
ARTHUR: Why’s it called that, Skip?
DOUGLAS: What?
ARTHUR: Ottery St. Mary.
MARTIN: I’ve no idea.
ARTHUR: Do you know, Douglas?
DOUGLAS: Yes.
MARTIN: Do you?
DOUGLAS: Certainly I do. You see St. Mary is the patron saint of Devon, and she, of course, was famously martyred by being eaten alive by otters.
ARTHUR: Really?
DOUGLAS: Oh yes. Rabid otters. And so she’s always portrayed in pictures absolutely covered in otters.
ARTHUR: What, eating her?
DOUGLAS: Sometimes, in the more fire and brimstone churches. Elsewhere, the assumption is they’re all in Heaven now and have made up, so they’re just shown milling about her, nuzzling her affectionately and offering her ottery kisses and gifts of haddock.
MARTIN: Douglas…!
ARTHUR: Why would the otters go to Heaven, if they ate a saint?
DOUGLAS: You’ve put your finger, Arthur, as is so often your way, on the crux of a thorny theological problem. So far, our best guess is simply that St. Peter’s got a real soft spot for otters. He looks into those whiskery faces and goes “You guys! I can’t stay mad at you” and lets them into Heaven.Cabin Pressure 3x04 “Ottery St. Mary”
(Been working on this bit-by-bit throughout the week…in between intense bouts of homework, of course…)
