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Flashpoint fic : Finding her place

Title : Finding her place
Characters :  Jules, Ed, Wordy, appearances by other members of OC pre-canon team
Summary : In which Jules Callaghan joins the team and Ed Lane is somewhat less than welcoming.

But it"s ok because Wordy is on her side.Collapse )



I really do like Neil Gaiman and his attitude towards libraries and books and creative arts.



I also like whoever took this picture and sent it to him.
Or, Summer is over and I probably won't even see a horse til December.

My dad first took us horseriding when I was four, just to see if we liked it.  I don't imagine he realised, back then, that he was committing himself to a forty mile round trip at least once a week for the next nineteen years and counting. He might have hoped. But he was, because we loved it.  And not just the sitting-on-the-horse bit, we loved all of it.  If you added up the hours all four of us have spent actually riding, it wouldn't even come close to the hours any one of us has spent just working round the yard. If there is a job done in stables that doesn't require actual qualifications, I've done it.  The riding is good, but most of the craic happens on the ground.

We started going on Saturday mornings and in the past few years switched back to Saturdays, but for  a long, long time we rode at seven on Friday. We almost always arrived early enough to tack up our  own horses or act as fence stewards for the six o'clock. Our lesson would last for an hour or so and  then, sometime in the last few minutes of the ride, Sandra would say to my dad, “Are you rushing off?” (In nineteen years I think he's answered 'yes' maybe ten times. At least one of those was because it  was starting to snow. But she always asks.) And so we would spend an hour, or two, or three, mucking out stables and filling bottomless haynets, whether it was a warm summer's evening or tipping with rain in the middle of January. And we would drive home listening to Friday Night Is Music  Night and the audio books on radio 4 and get there at half eleven, dirty and exhausted, and fall asleep  over a very late dinner.

Sometimes in the summer the question was “Are you busy on Sunday?” and that meant waging war  against ragweed, trying to kill gorse before it killed you, constructing elaborate, unlikely, slightly  terrifying jumps from telegraph poles and railway sleepers and wire.

My mother, though she smiles and nods and winces at the stories, Does Not Get It. At all. She once  famously inspired a nice man to offer her a statue by screaming when the horse she had just been  persuaded to mount shifted its weight and she would only come to watch us if she was allowed to  bring a large newspaper behind which she could hide whenever she thought her offspring were in mortal peril. Say, whenever we went faster than a trot. She bemoaned the fact that we would happily spend  hours mucking out and brushing the yard but fight for ten minutes over who had to brush the kitchen  floor. She gave dire warnings on the perils of eating lunch after washing your hands in cold water and no soap.  She complained bitterly, and still does, about the stink of horse and stables that clings to your clothes and your hair and spreads insidiously through the house within ten minutes.  She, in  short, regards the entire exercise with affectionate tolerance and some confusion and a general attitude of as-long-as-you're-having-fun-dear.

I don't get to go riding much these days because I can't go home every weekend in term-time and I  can't ride in Dublin. But riding has been a constant in my life longer than anything other than my family and my love of books. The horses have changed; some of the people have changed; a couple of years  ago the school moved to a new site that I don't know quite well enough. It means summer Saturdays  to me now, instead of Friday nights. But it is essentially the same as it was when I was four. It's still  the one place where I've never had a problem talking to people. It's still comforting and relaxing and, on occasion, absolutely bloody terrifying. And (one of the things my mother will never understand) the  smell of horse and hay and stables still smells a little bit like home.

Writer's Block: A literary masterpiece

Which books will you certainly read to your children, nieces, nephews or godchildren?


Roald Dahl, because no childhood would be complete without him.

Narnia, when they are young enough not to recognise the Christian allegory, because the stories are wonderful.

The Dark Is Rising Sequence, when they are old enough to love them as much as I do.

Diana Wynne Jones, always.

Terry Pratchett they can read themselves. They can grow up with Tiffany and grow old with everyone else and laugh all the years in between.

Aug. 20th, 2011

I've had a thought - WHAT ABOUT BABYCAKES???



Yup, waaaay too attached.

My brain, it is broken.

I like Snow Patrol. I like their love songs for every occasion, I like the occasional Norn Iron-isms, I like that they enjoy their work and slag each other incessantly and, despite successfully transitioning from failing punk band to hugely successful pop-rock combo, are still somewhat taken aback by the fact that they have enough fans to put on a record breaking gig in what is, for half of them anyway, home.


I also like Jack Davenport. I have liked him since the first time I watched him rant on Coupling. I liked him even more when I saw him talking about Pirates, when he wistfully described Johnny Depp as 'Mr Caribbean Sex' and himself as a cross between an ice cream and a carnival float. And it's not just the pretty, honestly. Or the voice.


Watching Jack Davenport and hearing Gary Lightbody? Very very disconcerting.







Love the video but not 100% sold on the song, yet. I think it might be one of those that I tolerate on the album and love once I've heard it live, because sometimes they forget that they don't need fancy effects and interesting technology. They really just need Gary Lightbody's voice.

SG-1 ficlet : Worth it for the view

So, this is a snippet of a much longer piece about Jack and Janet which has been sitting on my hard drive for about two years now and will, at this stage, probably never be more than disconnected paragraphs. But I like this bit and I want to get back into fandom now that the hellishly long academic year is over and this seems as good a place as any to start. It's still a bit disconnected and full of run-on sentences and much abuse of commas, but what the heck.

What you need to know for this to make sense is that in my personal head canon, Janet met Jack long before the Stargate and she was a lady who could drink most of the 6foot plus airmen she knew under the table despite being half their size, and in her younger and wilder days she frequently did.

I wouldn"t swap the pain for never knowing youCollapse )
I wouldn"t swap the pain for never knowing youCollapse )

Feb. 7th, 2011

Just watched the Flashpoint season finale.

BLOODY HELL.

Does anyone know when the next episode is? Since this show appears to be going for the Most Messed Up Scheduling Since Firefly award, is it possible that I won't have to wait til September?

Whenever it is, I expect it to be full of sunshine, kittens, apologies, joyful reunions, and one tiny, perfect Edlet. Anything less WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.

Seriously, well-acted and gripping though it was, the only thing that made me actually happy was Donna. Hello, Donna! I love you. When you're done with the team, send them my way. They need tea and hugs.

Not Parker. You can keep him for a while. Feel free to be fabulously bad-ass at him, but don't bruise him too badly. I might want him back when I've calmed down.