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Newsletter seventy seven
Mar. 15th, 2013 01:31 pmRugby tomorrow, including the big match at 5pm. I shall have no nails left, my hair will be completely grey and my wrinkles will be as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon. Unless England win, of course, in which case I’ll be like a spring chicken.
News:
It’s less than four months to UK Meet. (How many sleeps is that? Is there enough time to find a sufficiently embarrassing outfit or three?) I’ve decided to write a special Cambridge Fellows fee story to go on the event swagbag memory sticks, but I promise I’ll post it here, too. So, what would you like to see the guys getting up to? (Oh, do clean your minds out!) Please let me know.
My Cathy’s been sorting out old books, which I’ve rummaged through before sending to the charity shop. Found a nice one about Achilles to add to my TBR pile, which made me think of my Dreams of a Hero boys, so here’s a snippet of them:
The fruit on the vine hung heavy. It had been a good year and, so long as they could beat the birds to the harvest, it would be a fine crop. “Can you reach?” Miles shaded his eyes against the sun. “Those top branches always elude me.”
“If you learned to prune your vines, you’d not have this problem.” Roger’s voice implied his vines never grew out of line, as regimented as troops, even though he’d not the use of his left arm to help keep them under control.
“You could prune all of them and leave me to jobs I’m better suited for.” Miles smiled. “But you always insist we work side by side.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“May they take a long time to die.”
Old soldiers, they could laugh now at victories and defeats, scaring the neighbours’ children with tales of Alexander. The questions they’d had to answer. Had they really seen him? Was he the son of Zeus? Did he have horns? How had they survived when so many of the Sacred Band had been slaughtered?
“Good fortune and mercy” was Miles’s standard reply, while Roger would regale their listeners with the rest of the tale. How they’d both been injured, how Miles had covered Roger’s body with his own, how he’d staggered to his feet and challenged Alexander himself to finish them both with one blow and let them cross the Styx together. He always included an elaborate and emotional bit about Alexander’s tears, the prince’s own hands tending their wounds, although only the first part was true.
“Miles! Miles!” Roger’s voice cut into the dream, dispersing the vineyard and the sunshine and ushering in an unusually cool English July morning. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. It was just another one of the dreams.”
“I know. I could tell.” Roger smoothed his lover’s hair. “Was it bad?”
“Not tonight—it was the survival dream this time.” Miles rubbed his forehead. “That’s never quite so unsettling. At least I don’t feel so helpless afterwards.”
“I’ll let you sleep on next time.” Roger picked up the clock, pressing the dial to illuminate the face. “Five o’bloody clock. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll grab another couple of hours’ kip.” Miles snuggled down, shutting his eyes even though he knew there was no chance he’d get back to sleep. Maybe that was as well. Survival dreams didn’t tend to come consecutively.
Inspiration:
The miniature daffs in my garden, blooming marvellously.
News:
It’s less than four months to UK Meet. (How many sleeps is that? Is there enough time to find a sufficiently embarrassing outfit or three?) I’ve decided to write a special Cambridge Fellows fee story to go on the event swagbag memory sticks, but I promise I’ll post it here, too. So, what would you like to see the guys getting up to? (Oh, do clean your minds out!) Please let me know.
My Cathy’s been sorting out old books, which I’ve rummaged through before sending to the charity shop. Found a nice one about Achilles to add to my TBR pile, which made me think of my Dreams of a Hero boys, so here’s a snippet of them:
The fruit on the vine hung heavy. It had been a good year and, so long as they could beat the birds to the harvest, it would be a fine crop. “Can you reach?” Miles shaded his eyes against the sun. “Those top branches always elude me.”
“If you learned to prune your vines, you’d not have this problem.” Roger’s voice implied his vines never grew out of line, as regimented as troops, even though he’d not the use of his left arm to help keep them under control.
“You could prune all of them and leave me to jobs I’m better suited for.” Miles smiled. “But you always insist we work side by side.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“May they take a long time to die.”
Old soldiers, they could laugh now at victories and defeats, scaring the neighbours’ children with tales of Alexander. The questions they’d had to answer. Had they really seen him? Was he the son of Zeus? Did he have horns? How had they survived when so many of the Sacred Band had been slaughtered?
“Good fortune and mercy” was Miles’s standard reply, while Roger would regale their listeners with the rest of the tale. How they’d both been injured, how Miles had covered Roger’s body with his own, how he’d staggered to his feet and challenged Alexander himself to finish them both with one blow and let them cross the Styx together. He always included an elaborate and emotional bit about Alexander’s tears, the prince’s own hands tending their wounds, although only the first part was true.
“Miles! Miles!” Roger’s voice cut into the dream, dispersing the vineyard and the sunshine and ushering in an unusually cool English July morning. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. It was just another one of the dreams.”
“I know. I could tell.” Roger smoothed his lover’s hair. “Was it bad?”
“Not tonight—it was the survival dream this time.” Miles rubbed his forehead. “That’s never quite so unsettling. At least I don’t feel so helpless afterwards.”
“I’ll let you sleep on next time.” Roger picked up the clock, pressing the dial to illuminate the face. “Five o’bloody clock. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll grab another couple of hours’ kip.” Miles snuggled down, shutting his eyes even though he knew there was no chance he’d get back to sleep. Maybe that was as well. Survival dreams didn’t tend to come consecutively.
Inspiration:
The miniature daffs in my garden, blooming marvellously.
