I'm not hot shit in a wineglass, more curried goat in a paper cup

It's a rainy day and I'm being lazy. I've finally just about caught up on indeedsir, though I've only read the first chapter of the "Jeeves is a spy in WWII" epic The Long Long Trail - six parts posted so far of fifteen. I kind of don't want to go on to the second chapter until they're all posted.

I have endless amounts of tea, courtesy of my new tea pot brought back from England. :) I had hoped, though, that with a new teapot I wouldn't dribble when I poured like I did with the old one (a rather gaudy thing in dark blue with gold pheasants on it - I thought it terribly pretty when I bought it, but I was 18, then. There are some things we'd often rather not be reminded of when older, and our artistic tastes is often one of them. Think about this when you contemplate getting a tattoo.) but now I find I must accept my fate - I am a dribbler. But the new teapot much more suites me, now - it's round and chocolate brown, fading delicately darker at the edges. I adore it. :)

I forgot to mention that I found out last week that one of the blank phone messages on my answering machine when we came home was my coworker, Alice, calling me to tell me she'd found green peppercorns in a co-op in Bangor, and then realized just as my answering machine picked up that we were in England. It was nice to know that she thought of me and remembered me mentioning that I was out of green peppercorns. :)

...

While washing dishes just now I found myself singing "Come to the church in the wildwood," a hymn which I only learned because it figured in a sci-fi story I read when I was a kid, where some old German dude with a (I think) bassoon finds that if he plays that song with a special crystal reed he gets little blue warthogs coming out of the woodwork and they... do something. Eat his pants, I think. I read this story multiple times, because it was in a particular anthology which resided at my grandmother's house in Rockland and was something to read when I was there, and a lot of the stories were kind of crazy like that. (I suspect it of being the same anthology which had "Genevive for Everybody," "The Blue Giraffe" and "Helen A'Lloy"). So then I had to look up "The Gnurrs Come From The Voodvork Out" and discovered it was written by Reginald Bretnor, and that there are a few more stories in the Papa Schimmelhorn series (page down to Bretnor) - he was writing them up until 1987! I must find these!

*sigh* Okay, been too lazy, today, must hurry, now. :P

I hope that this is going somewhere, but each one is fun to write.  Britpicking and any other criticisms highly encouraged - I'm always surprised at the silly things I miss when I'm writing. 

Title: The Book II
Author: Derien
Fandom: P.G. Wodehouse
Pairing: preslash hints toward Mike Jackson / Rupert Psmith
Summary: Psmith returns from infirmary with his bad ankle and needs help hobbling around.
Notes: Read The Book first.  Set just after the end of "Mike."  They have the bulk of their last year at Sedleigh to go through before going on to college, making them about eighteen.
Disclaimer: Mike and Psmith belong wholly to Wodehouse; their actions  in this story belong wholly to me.
Word count: 844

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( The next morning Psmith turned up at breakfast, hobbling around with a crutch and splint... )