1) It was
Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play...
Fifty years ago-- *fifty* years ago-- the Beatles arrived in the US to appear on Ed Sullivan. And yes, I remember it well, including the little caption over John's photo saying 'Sorry, girls, he's married.' And my ten year old sister dissolving into tears because she'd never marry a Beatle. Ahh, good times.
The *4 years are never anything special-- usually a bit dull for most of their length before segueing into disaster-- but I'm being reminded that the beginning bits are often excellent. Ten years ago, pre-op, was a busy January contentedly writing dragons. Twenty years ago was my happiest winter in Tokyo, trotting to comic sales and watching TV with Finder Jean and ficcing like a madwoman, a scant six weeks after I'd first started writing. Thirty years was just started full-time at the daycare, money after two years of penny-pinching: I believe I splurged on a pair of kitchen scissors and still recall how satisfying that was. Forty years was also just started full-time work, but mostly was stage-handing and sewing for the medieval drama group at UofT, a mythic time I can now scarce recall. The Coronation of King Henry V, a re-enactment of same. I was pissed because they wouldn't let me be a monk ('female monks would look wrong') and then the contingent from York U, which included Henry, showed up with a bunch of busty Dominicans.
2. One reason this month is feeling time-out-of-time is that I haven't been able to get to my usual haunts, the coffee shop and the bookstore and the library, in a fortnight or more. The first explains part of the current weight loss (no daily croissant snerf); it *should* result in more cash in hand but doesn't, because the money I'd save on a latte and a croissant (cough or two cough) gets spent on the subway. In the Fimbulwinter of 2008 I often walked to work and always walked back, because the TTC is not to be relied on when snow falls and my knees hated the thought of stairs and all of me hates TO rush hour. Can't think how I managed that now, at fifteen pound lighter and with boots that fit.
3. But! I have duck eggs again! and English muffins (though this lot are a letdown) and ham and tarragon mustard and low-cal mayonnaise; and that's as close as I need to come to Eggs Benedict. The more so as any restaurant I know uses unsatisfactory chicken eggs.
I didn't really want a dozen duck eggs but that's how they're sold, and in January you're to be grateful for any duck eggs at all. Also my optimistic belief that dropping the bag that contained the eggs hadn't cracked any proved, on closer inspection, to be mistaken. Three are cracked at the bottom and stuck to the cardboard.
4. Equanimity is restored, so you'd think I'd go back to reading Gladstone and Pratchett; but no, I continue through my semi-dreck pile, for no reason I can see. Finished One Salt Sea the other day, one of McGuire's Toby Daye books. When it stopped irritating me, I knew I was recovering. But it still irritates, probably because of that tiresome trope 'Heroes Must Crack Wise.' This is how you know they're heroes: default response to anything, even the most sombre and tragic events, are the (glib) quip and the (feeble) joke. Seriously, is there an adult in the house? In the book? Anywhere? (The other irritation is the existence of Meen Gurlz who hate the heroine for existing. People who write Meen Gurlz should be made to supply 200 page additions entirely from the Gurlz' POV.)
5. Have been informed by the FFL that one symptom of codeine withdrawal is sweats. That explains those soaked sheets last week. Have also been informed that codeine fuzzes the mind. Am not aware of operating in a constant fog, actually; the fog went when menopause was over and I returned to my 'day-planner in head' self. Though if stopping codeine would return the 'thesaurus in head' function to me, I might seriously consider it.