I have met the fluffy goths

I thought I was living in Whetstone, north London.

It appears that in actual fact I live in an ante chamber to the Realm of the Endless.

At about 11.15 this evfening while we were watching The Count of Monte Cristo on DVD the doorbell rang and four underage goth wannabes appeared with a view to taking up residence for the evening. Combined age of the four I would guess to be about 81.

"Oh yes", quoth DT sans LJ "they will be stopping here tonight. I'd arranged it for an unspecified weekend and forgot that it might be this one."

Not that it matters really I suppose. The place is big enough, and we have plenty of coffee. I wouldn't mind, but one of them looks to be only about 16, and despite dressing entirely in black, manages to look not entirely unlike a Proclaimer. He has a stuffed teddy bear.

Now I have nothing against goths. Indeed a fair number of you gentle people reading this are goths, or goth-inclined. But if you're going to do something, do it right, for God's sake. Black leather on its own does not a goth make (nor indeed, a rocker); there has to be some attitude. The Midlands crew would wet themselves in hilarity with this lot. Or eat them alive.

I have retreated to my rooms at the top of the house (henceforth The Tower) and am trying not to think too hard about being patronised by kids about role-playing when my initial instinct is to turf the blighters out into the street (although it is cold and wet and the little dears should be curled away in the Land of Nod), telling them to come back with a note from Mom next time. Truth to tell, I am a little too shellshocked to be annoyed.

I am now going to muck about on the PC until I have listened to this new British Sea Power album in its entirety (and I have to say that it is pretty good so far), and then I shall go to bed, hoping that they have all gone when I go downstairs in the morning. I don't have the energy right now. I need warning and preparation time for encounters with Yoof.

"Changeling, it's a role-playing game."

Bloody cheek.

I have met the fluffy goths

I thought I was living in Whetstone, north London.

It appears that in actual fact I live in an ante chamber to the Realm of the Endless.

At about 11.15 this evfening while we were watching The Count of Monte Cristo on DVD the doorbell rang and four underage goth wannabes appeared with a view to taking up residence for the evening. Combined age of the four I would guess to be about 81.

"Oh yes", quoth DT sans LJ "they will be stopping here tonight. I'd arranged it for an unspecified weekend and forgot that it might be this one."

Not that it matters really I suppose. The place is big enough, and we have plenty of coffee. I wouldn't mind, but one of them looks to be only about 16, and despite dressing entirely in black, manages to look not entirely unlike a Proclaimer. He has a stuffed teddy bear.

Now I have nothing against goths. Indeed a fair number of you gentle people reading this are goths, or goth-inclined. But if you're going to do something, do it right, for God's sake. Black leather on its own does not a goth make (nor indeed, a rocker); there has to be some attitude. The Midlands crew would wet themselves in hilarity with this lot. Or eat them alive.

I have retreated to my rooms at the top of the house (henceforth The Tower) and am trying not to think too hard about being patronised by kids about role-playing when my initial instinct is to turf the blighters out into the street (although it is cold and wet and the little dears should be curled away in the Land of Nod), telling them to come back with a note from Mom next time. Truth to tell, I am a little too shellshocked to be annoyed.

I am now going to muck about on the PC until I have listened to this new British Sea Power album in its entirety (and I have to say that it is pretty good so far), and then I shall go to bed, hoping that they have all gone when I go downstairs in the morning. I don't have the energy right now. I need warning and preparation time for encounters with Yoof.

"Changeling, it's a role-playing game."

Bloody cheek.

(no subject)

I have spent the morning abed in The Tower listening to the radio and dozing in and out of wakefulness...

It seems devilishly quiet downstairs now. I think I may investigate, and hopefully I can have a coffee and some breakfast/brunch in peace...

(no subject)

I have spent the morning abed in The Tower listening to the radio and dozing in and out of wakefulness...

It seems devilishly quiet downstairs now. I think I may investigate, and hopefully I can have a coffee and some breakfast/brunch in peace...

Decisions, decisions...

I am down to my last few strands of Golden Virginia - there's maybe enough to roll up another four or five ciggies, and then I'm out. I am going out later this afternoon, and have to decide whether to be prudent with this remaining supply, or just go for it and then do without until I find a tobacconist.

I am not entirely without resources in this matter, but my alternative supply of rolling baccy is something called Javaanse Jongens Enteng (1/2 Zware Shag), 50g of Dutch rolling baccy brought back by romney from Amsterdam many months ago. It's never been opened and is in pristine condition, but I am wary of it, for the last Dutch tobacco I smoked had my tonsils swinging down around my knees after a couple of inadvertently deep inhalations resulting in me coughing myself inside out. Smokers and ex smokers amongst you will know what I mean when I say it was less smooth than Old Holborn, which itself can be like smoking rusty barbed wire.

The packaging of this stuff sports a picture of two Javanese youths rolling cigarettes, in a delightfully un-PC tableau, with the Dutch EU health warning, Roken is dodelijk rather incongruously beneath it.

Decisions, decisions...

I am down to my last few strands of Golden Virginia - there's maybe enough to roll up another four or five ciggies, and then I'm out. I am going out later this afternoon, and have to decide whether to be prudent with this remaining supply, or just go for it and then do without until I find a tobacconist.

I am not entirely without resources in this matter, but my alternative supply of rolling baccy is something called Javaanse Jongens Enteng (1/2 Zware Shag), 50g of Dutch rolling baccy brought back by romney from Amsterdam many months ago. It's never been opened and is in pristine condition, but I am wary of it, for the last Dutch tobacco I smoked had my tonsils swinging down around my knees after a couple of inadvertently deep inhalations resulting in me coughing myself inside out. Smokers and ex smokers amongst you will know what I mean when I say it was less smooth than Old Holborn, which itself can be like smoking rusty barbed wire.

The packaging of this stuff sports a picture of two Javanese youths rolling cigarettes, in a delightfully un-PC tableau, with the Dutch EU health warning, Roken is dodelijk rather incongruously beneath it.

(no subject)

It never occured to me that putting up a curtain rail and curtains could be such hard work.

I need a lie down.

That is all.

(no subject)

It never occured to me that putting up a curtain rail and curtains could be such hard work.

I need a lie down.

That is all.