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Seven words (finally)
Sep. 29th, 2007 11:59 pmIt's an indication of how uninspired I am at present that even when given prompts it takes me over a week to actually attempt to do anything with them. Sorry, Lil - they did make me think, but failed to make me write. Until now, that is.
I was the kind of small child who didn't think things through. Chasing my ball into the sea did seem like a good idea at the time, but the wave that came in the opposite direction wasn't so good. My brother did just about the only useful thing he ever did for me and scooped me out, or I probably wouldn't be here today. I have never quite trusted the sea since ...
In the early days of fandom, we spent a lot of time at conventions in very brief costumes (something that I wouldn't do now, due to size and age). There were two black American fans, and I was always wildly jealous of how perfect they looked in just about anything - their ebony skin and hair seemed to work with any colour and any fabric, unlike my pasty yellowish flesh which somehow clashed with everything. Costumers almost came to blows over getting them in their fashion shows. Mythichistorian went by the Leeds Hilton the other day, which as we all know used to be the Dragonara. And whilst the hotel may have changed its name, the Brigante Suite remains the same.
Nova - well, conventions again, really - it used to be the tradition to have a really naff movie on the first night, the one I remember most clearly being Santa Klaus Conquers the Martians - past bad and into hilarious. Also, Sam Delaney's guest speech at whichever Worldcon it was, where my suspicions that he had studied philosophy were confirmed. And wow, what an amazing beard!
Turn reminded me of Anne McCaffrey's Pern books, it's a long time since I read any of those although I must have some on the shelf somewhere. And that reminded me (in turn, groan) of the dead duck party at at Trek con where she graced us with her party piece, which was even funnier than Rog Peyton's readings from the book of pyramids.
Foundation ... and empire? (It's gone midnight, I seem to be into free assocation - !) Also, whoever at Body Shop redesigned the packaging of their make-up base from a sensible square box which slipped nicely into one's handbag to a stupid, bulky round thing that you only had to look at to break, and where you had to lift the tray with the powder to get at the sponge. Daft - they lost MY custom!
I was trying not to think about work, but confess Birch and Collar both immediately reminded me. Mythichistorian suggested I talk about cat collars instead, but there really isn't very much I can say about them, except perhaps that they ought to come in two lengths since we always wasted two thirds of the Tig's, her being so small. I have nothing much to say about birch trees, either. Sycamores, now those I could go on about at length - they're not trees, they're woody weeds. We used to get so many seedlings in Thornton Heath that the whole garden could've easily become a sycamore grove. And may be, by now, for all I know.
So, there, something on seven words - eventually. Thanks, Lil! I will also confess to this brief moment of 70s SF magazine prose:
I can go to bed with a clean conscience now!
I was the kind of small child who didn't think things through. Chasing my ball into the sea did seem like a good idea at the time, but the wave that came in the opposite direction wasn't so good. My brother did just about the only useful thing he ever did for me and scooped me out, or I probably wouldn't be here today. I have never quite trusted the sea since ...
In the early days of fandom, we spent a lot of time at conventions in very brief costumes (something that I wouldn't do now, due to size and age). There were two black American fans, and I was always wildly jealous of how perfect they looked in just about anything - their ebony skin and hair seemed to work with any colour and any fabric, unlike my pasty yellowish flesh which somehow clashed with everything. Costumers almost came to blows over getting them in their fashion shows. Mythichistorian went by the Leeds Hilton the other day, which as we all know used to be the Dragonara. And whilst the hotel may have changed its name, the Brigante Suite remains the same.
Nova - well, conventions again, really - it used to be the tradition to have a really naff movie on the first night, the one I remember most clearly being Santa Klaus Conquers the Martians - past bad and into hilarious. Also, Sam Delaney's guest speech at whichever Worldcon it was, where my suspicions that he had studied philosophy were confirmed. And wow, what an amazing beard!
Turn reminded me of Anne McCaffrey's Pern books, it's a long time since I read any of those although I must have some on the shelf somewhere. And that reminded me (in turn, groan) of the dead duck party at at Trek con where she graced us with her party piece, which was even funnier than Rog Peyton's readings from the book of pyramids.
Foundation ... and empire? (It's gone midnight, I seem to be into free assocation - !) Also, whoever at Body Shop redesigned the packaging of their make-up base from a sensible square box which slipped nicely into one's handbag to a stupid, bulky round thing that you only had to look at to break, and where you had to lift the tray with the powder to get at the sponge. Daft - they lost MY custom!
I was trying not to think about work, but confess Birch and Collar both immediately reminded me. Mythichistorian suggested I talk about cat collars instead, but there really isn't very much I can say about them, except perhaps that they ought to come in two lengths since we always wasted two thirds of the Tig's, her being so small. I have nothing much to say about birch trees, either. Sycamores, now those I could go on about at length - they're not trees, they're woody weeds. We used to get so many seedlings in Thornton Heath that the whole garden could've easily become a sycamore grove. And may be, by now, for all I know.
So, there, something on seven words - eventually. Thanks, Lil! I will also confess to this brief moment of 70s SF magazine prose:
Shaded beneath the birch, the ebony prince watches the nova. A turn of the universe, he eases his collar and gives the Foundation ambassador a languid wave. “Seven words, eh?” he mutters.
I can go to bed with a clean conscience now!
