(no subject)

So.

Someone found a Dalek in Hampshire. In a pond. Underwater.

Now, the first reaction I had was that if I were standing hip-deep in black water and a Dalek head came bobbing to the surface in front of me I would never stop screaming. But my second reaction, of course, was How did that get there?

kalichan and rm wondered too, and thus dalekinthepond was born. It's a fic and art fest to explore just how a disembodied Dalek head, eyestalk still intact, ended up buried in a rubbish-dump pond in Hampshire. Whoniverse fen, knock yourselves out!

(ask_aboutcoffee, sidekick of the infamous ask_captainjack, has one explanation.)

(no subject)

This last chapter of Nameless is going to totally fucking slay me. :D I MAY NOT WIN.

It needs to be pulled apart, restructured, and reassembled into probably two separate chapters. But I just got done overhauling everything else in this damn story, and I'm reaching that point I've reached with every play I've worked on where I just hate everything about it.

I've been going over my notes and I'm pretty pleased that I managed to internalise and fix almost all the major issues with the rest of it. I still have emails and posts to go through, but I think that will be tomorrow's task, or possibly Monday's.

This weekend I need to get a haircut and buy some clothes; yesterday I had an epic decongestant-induced nosebleed that ended with me soaking one of my four good business shirts in cold water overnight. I also need to do my dishes before they form a union and start demanding it themselves.

For tonight, however, I'm going to curl up with the laptop and watch some mindless TV. Thank god.

Time Travel Can Kiss My Arse

Well, this is just excessive.

As most of you will hopefully recall, last week future-me (now just-plain-me) dropped in on present-me (now past-me) due to a momentary temporal displacement thingy. Thingy's a technical term by the 51st century, so I'm told, but I'm not allowed to know precisely what it's a technical term for. Metasyntactic variables, as Sir Terry proved, are not for the weak.

I was prepared to be dunked in the fountain pool, having watched me fall into it last week, and I was extremely glad to get my charcoal pinstripe trousers back after loaning them to me last week. I was prepared for the (hot, steaming, illicit) coffee. I was even prepared to leap back through the Rift once I (both of me) had finished with coffee.

I was not prepared to be swept through space as well as time and end up falling out of the air and landing on top of Gwen, nor was I prepared for the yelling, threats of face-shooting, etc. until I proved that I really was me and really did have a broken leg. Actually that was done later at A&E, but I did shout about it a bit beforehand.

Torchwood's health-care plan is a bit crap since Owen died (again), as he was the only one who used the Blutain Calcifictrixfyer or, as he so humorously called it, "The Boner". It's a big machine that knits bones, usually without incident, but he forgot to plug it in before he expired (permanently). It'll be up and running by Monday, but the battery has to charge in the meantime so I'm to stay off my feet and in the cast until then.

I am finding this excruciatingly boring already, so I have decided on a plan that I got from The Internet: Ianto Jones Reviews Your Fanfictions!

By submission only, of course (don't laugh). Link me to one (1) fanfiction. Yours or a friend's! I will review it. Max will be assisting me in this task by sleeping on any available portion of my anatomy and chewing on unidentifiable objects found under the sofa.

I do not promise accuracy or detail, because I'm Torchwood.

And now if you'll excuse me, I must go mix some alcohol and painkillers. I'll check in on you all tomorrow and see what bounty you have brought me.