Auntie gave me a ring earlier and told me that she couldn’t drive into London today because she was ill, and coming from Aunt that probably means she has severe pneumonia because she always seems to be on the job.
So, instead of heading over to that poetry thing, me and Mark are heading over to her to check if she’s all right. Honestly, if she puts something off, she has to be near terminal. So, instead of international poetry, it’s going to be sick-care this day.
I am disappointed, because I had really looked forward to it, but since Mark didn’t want to go, I relied on Auntie to drive me, and I don’t really want to get on the train and go to London on my own.
Mark is funny sometimes. They had a bit of a windfall during the party the other night, and there’s been hundreds of pounds sitting here in a jar that belongs to his LGBT club, and he’s been fretting about getting it into a bank – in case someone breaks in and steal it.
I mean, we have a lot of other stuff that is more valuable than a jar of coins and crumpled bills, and if anyone breaks in the jar is probably the last thing that thieves will think of to carry out of here. And since we’re home a lot, those thieves would get a nasty surprise anyway.
But he’s so eager for it to be Monday so that he can go down to the bank and deposit the money, and he keeps mentioning it again and again. I love his pretty head, but sometimes it’s such a mystery to me. It’s like an enigma unto itself, to use that tired old clich・
He’s busy making chicken soup for Auntie, though, which is a bit of a joke since that was her standard food when we were sick and when we lived in the old flat in her basement. Whenever any of us was ill, Auntie came down with that universal remedy of chicken soup.
So, now that she’s ill, we’re going to return the favour. Only, it smells so damned nice that I want to eat it now, auntie be damned, and not wait until we arrive over there. He’s also making wheat buns. When we went shopping for groceries and books, we bought some of those half-done buns that you put in the oven for ten minutes before you serve them.
I love having an amateur chef for a boyfriend sometimes. He is so keen on that stuff, and takes every opportunity to make things. Sometimes I wonder if he wouldn’t be happier if he tried to become a cook rather than a science geek. He really likes puttering around in the kitchen – which is fine by me because I’m much more of a functional cook. When I cook food, I just want something to eat, and cooking is just something I have to do to solve that immediate problem.
I bought a new book yesterday, but I haven’t tried to read it yet. It’s the new one by John Scalzi, and it’s called “Redshirts”. It’s supposed to be a funny novel about the grunts in Star Trek that were chosen to be on the away team with Spock, Captain Kirk and Chekov, and who always died. None of the higher ranking officers were ever killed, but the statistical chance of the grunt dying was near one hundred percent. And they’d die horribly too.
This book is about some grunts in a Star Trek-like universe that connects the dots, and do the math, and consider the statistical probability of a really horrible death as members of away-teams. Then they try to change the unfortunate given outcome of all these away teams. It looks like an awesome book, and it’s been given some good and some not so good reviews.
It is unusual with science fiction that try to be funny. Apparently publishers are reluctant to try it after all the imitators of “The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy” poisoned the market with crap, so unlike with fantasy books where Terry Pratchett is one of the best-selling authors of the genre, Science Fiction doesn’t have much in the way of humour. I hope this book can contribute to changing this.