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4/10/04 07:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
minervasolospoke to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
almighty_frog on the phone last night. She's all ensconced up in Durham. Wonder if she's got her computer working yet.
Work is all finished now, though I'll probably be back there for Christmas (ouch). Not very well, all coldy and coughy, but hopefuly I'll shake that before I leave for Uni. Been going through pots and pans today. Haven't got any plates yet though...
Found something on the comptuer I didn't recognise. I completely forgot that I wrote it. I'll have to stick it up on sigkinks. I suspect I may have written it on here originally, but I'm reposting it because it's silly and bizarre. I seem top have been playing about with style. The worst part is, I wrote the first paragraph in all seriousness, and then realised what it sounded like.
I, Detective
New York City. The Big Apple, and its chock full of worms for early birds like me. I was sitting at my desk, looking through the shots of Dirty Danny at the Five and Dime last night when a broad burst through my door, no knocking, no lie. She had blonde hair down to here and legs up to there. In floods of tears and mascara, she prostrated herself before my desk and
London. It’s not New York or LA or Chicago, but it’s where I belong. My secretary was painting her nails in the next room and I could smell it even though I had my feet up on my desk and she had hers up on hers. The PC hummed and the coffee smelt like washing up liquid. Suddenly, a girl burst through my door. Through the doorway I could see my stunned secretary, still protesting. The dame had brunette curls framing a tearstained face, and she slammed her hand on my desk, knocking me
I live in Guildford. It’s not even a city, though it tries its best, curled up in the home counties. Worst crime is the fact they’re knocking down my office to expand the shopping centre. My secretary is a guy, though he is painting his nails if that’s any help. The girl who came through my door had booked an appointment over a week ago and had red frizzy hair, stubby legs and a screaming child attached to her hand.
Only idiots and idealists become private detectives. Back home I had an entire wall of detective novels. My secretary teased me about them, but since he worked in exchange for sex I put up with it. I can’t afford to pay someone to do what he does: precisely nothing.
Yeah, who ever heard of a gay detective? Well, I know there are some, because I’ve got an entire shelf dedicated to books about men like me. I still prefer Phillip Marlowe, he’s the background on my computer, but he and I live in opposite worlds. For a start, there’s a limit to what I can charge people for. If it’s a crime, then I send them to the police. Even if they’ve got a reason not to go, there’s no way I’m tying myself up in those knots. Aiding and Abetting, or Obstructing Justice, or damn near anything else would land me in jail. No, thank you.
“Have you found my husband yet?”
Always the question. Two out of every three cases I deal with are husbands. They’ve disappeared, or they might be having an affair, or they’re involved in something shady. The other third are wives. Oh, though I was once asked to investigate planning legislation. Most boring two weeks of my life. I became a detective for a reason, people! Guns and girls and chases through narrow streets in easily recognised cars that for someone reason no one ever remembers. There was adventure and excitement and fedoras and trench coats and a great deal of Bourbon in dirty offices downtown.
I don’t think Guildford has a downtown. There are some housing estates, I suppose. And, well, the girls are a total loss, and I can’t afford a gun license (or come up with a decent excuse for having one), I drive a Ford and my office sits between a holistic healing agency and a small estate agents.
I still wear the fedora and trench coat, and there is a bottle of bourbon in the bottom draw, though that was a gift from my bemused father and I’ve never even opened it. People have expectations, you know. I’m trying to live the dream, but it’s boring me to sleep.
“Madam, you’re husband is dead.”
“No he isn’t.”
“Yes, he is. I went to his funeral. You went to his funeral.”
“My husband isn’t dead!”
“Daddy’s dead?”
“You were at the funeral too, kid.”
Sometimes I send people to psychiatrists too.
See? Bizarre and silly.
almighty_frog on the phone last night. She's all ensconced up in Durham. Wonder if she's got her computer working yet.Work is all finished now, though I'll probably be back there for Christmas (ouch). Not very well, all coldy and coughy, but hopefuly I'll shake that before I leave for Uni. Been going through pots and pans today. Haven't got any plates yet though...
Found something on the comptuer I didn't recognise. I completely forgot that I wrote it. I'll have to stick it up on sigkinks. I suspect I may have written it on here originally, but I'm reposting it because it's silly and bizarre. I seem top have been playing about with style. The worst part is, I wrote the first paragraph in all seriousness, and then realised what it sounded like.
I, Detective
New York City. The Big Apple, and its chock full of worms for early birds like me. I was sitting at my desk, looking through the shots of Dirty Danny at the Five and Dime last night when a broad burst through my door, no knocking, no lie. She had blonde hair down to here and legs up to there. In floods of tears and mascara, she prostrated herself before my desk and
London. It’s not New York or LA or Chicago, but it’s where I belong. My secretary was painting her nails in the next room and I could smell it even though I had my feet up on my desk and she had hers up on hers. The PC hummed and the coffee smelt like washing up liquid. Suddenly, a girl burst through my door. Through the doorway I could see my stunned secretary, still protesting. The dame had brunette curls framing a tearstained face, and she slammed her hand on my desk, knocking me
I live in Guildford. It’s not even a city, though it tries its best, curled up in the home counties. Worst crime is the fact they’re knocking down my office to expand the shopping centre. My secretary is a guy, though he is painting his nails if that’s any help. The girl who came through my door had booked an appointment over a week ago and had red frizzy hair, stubby legs and a screaming child attached to her hand.
Only idiots and idealists become private detectives. Back home I had an entire wall of detective novels. My secretary teased me about them, but since he worked in exchange for sex I put up with it. I can’t afford to pay someone to do what he does: precisely nothing.
Yeah, who ever heard of a gay detective? Well, I know there are some, because I’ve got an entire shelf dedicated to books about men like me. I still prefer Phillip Marlowe, he’s the background on my computer, but he and I live in opposite worlds. For a start, there’s a limit to what I can charge people for. If it’s a crime, then I send them to the police. Even if they’ve got a reason not to go, there’s no way I’m tying myself up in those knots. Aiding and Abetting, or Obstructing Justice, or damn near anything else would land me in jail. No, thank you.
“Have you found my husband yet?”
Always the question. Two out of every three cases I deal with are husbands. They’ve disappeared, or they might be having an affair, or they’re involved in something shady. The other third are wives. Oh, though I was once asked to investigate planning legislation. Most boring two weeks of my life. I became a detective for a reason, people! Guns and girls and chases through narrow streets in easily recognised cars that for someone reason no one ever remembers. There was adventure and excitement and fedoras and trench coats and a great deal of Bourbon in dirty offices downtown.
I don’t think Guildford has a downtown. There are some housing estates, I suppose. And, well, the girls are a total loss, and I can’t afford a gun license (or come up with a decent excuse for having one), I drive a Ford and my office sits between a holistic healing agency and a small estate agents.
I still wear the fedora and trench coat, and there is a bottle of bourbon in the bottom draw, though that was a gift from my bemused father and I’ve never even opened it. People have expectations, you know. I’m trying to live the dream, but it’s boring me to sleep.
“Madam, you’re husband is dead.”
“No he isn’t.”
“Yes, he is. I went to his funeral. You went to his funeral.”
“My husband isn’t dead!”
“Daddy’s dead?”
“You were at the funeral too, kid.”
Sometimes I send people to psychiatrists too.
See? Bizarre and silly.
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no subject
Date: 5/10/04 05:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 5/10/04 10:33 am (UTC)Glad you got your computer going. Made any interesting friends yet? I think you said the club sign ups were today (or some sign ups) - have you located and punced on the anime people? And the LGBT people? And some completely insane and pointless club, like Jacobi's cereal people?
Once I'm ensconced in York, there must be visitations!
no subject
Date: 5/10/04 10:50 am (UTC)You'll probably need two sets of bedding, if only because it might take you more than one day to wash the one set. You don't know. Don't worry about taking stuff to Uni, you'll end up buying half a ton of more crap when you're up there anyway - I did. I now have two angle-poise lamps, because I forgot to bring a lamp with me - but don't forget to buy some food just before you go in. I'm totally catered for, and I still needed some. >.<