Despite my offer of fresh peach ice cream to Undine’s syllabus fairy, she hasn’t shown up. And neither have the writing elves. Apparently, I have to do everything myself.

Oh dear . . . what were Basement Cat and the Scot so intent on last night?

Any small supernatural creatures who would like to be helpful should probably bring Medieval Woman‘s ninjas along as bodyguards. What sort of horrible fate befalls people whose cats attack visiting Fair Folk? I can’t recall any mention of this in the ballads, so maybe the elves and fairies do manage to look out for themselves. Then again, maybe those ballads just aren’t extant.

Anyway, having ground out 515 words, I am going to have to turn my attention to class plans. I think the writing feels slow and hard in part because I am terribly conscious of having done less this summer than I would have liked. I wanted this piece to be done and gone before Leeds, and here I am still working on what is in effect a crappy first draft that will need substantial editing and cutting (though in cold fact it is not the first draft, no, nor the fifth; but let us not dwell on that).

Speaking of fifths, is it time for MFJ yet? I think it is. Time for something, anyway. Scripsi.

4 thoughts on “The syllabus fairy

  1. I went straight to mint-fucking-julep, too. What does this say about your readership, O Dame? This is the loveliest/LoLiest account of procrastination fantasies I have encountered. (My cat is utterly craven: even a whiff of something potentially Faerie in origin would have her cowering between my ankles, ears flat and tail a-twitch. My good fortune or bad? To be seen.)

  2. Moria, I think it says that my readers are insufficiently acquainted with the acronyms of Comrade PhysioProf and Dr Crazy, for whom MFJ = mother-fucking Jameson's (Irish whisky). More my sort of thing than mint juleps—you and Meg may be more refined than I, or perhaps just more southern.

Comments are now closed.