We discovered last week that the purveyors of fine teas in the nearby upper-crust borough had closed up shop.
This is bad — where am I going to go pick up Dragon Well on a whim? — but not bad, because they were snobbish prissy shopwomen who belittled their clientele instead of welcoming them and educating them. We drove past a tiny tea shop up on Monkland a while ago, so one of these days I shall have to take a walk up and check it out in order to ascertain its value.
Saturday night after dinner out with friends my stomach and digestive system decided to stage a protest about something (it certainly wasn’t the food), and while I’m much better, they’re still unhappy about life. We leave for Pennsylvania before dawn tomorrow, so I wish they’d hurry up and settle. We picked up the camping gear from Hiscock’s Fine Camping Supplies and Laundromat last night (and also obtained a nice anti-skip personal CD player with tape convertor for the trip, huzzah), so all that remains is to:
get photocopies to take with us
– pick up gallon jugs of bottled water
finish packing clothes
– pick up black cord for my dress
– pick up the first-aid kit
finish hemming Gob Anarchy’s robe for the band’s first unofficial tour (unofficial because a third of the band will be missing, alas)
I succeeded in creating the body of the robe and put it on to show HRH. It’s designed for someone who is about six inches taller than I am, so the sleeves flopped way past my fingers, the hood almost obscured my face, and the hem dragged on the ground. “‘S a bit big,” I said, flopping my hands about. HRH turned around, saw me, and tried to hide his laughter behind a hand. “Wot?” I demanded. “You look like a cute Dementor,” he said, his efforts turning his face red. “Give us a kiss, then!” I siad, stepping towards him. “That’s just creepy,” he said, “no, thanks.”
All three of my female fur-children have staked out this robe as The Best Place To Sleep. Hope Gob Anarchy appreciates how they feel.
To the sewing machine!