Tied Like Kites To All Of Your Dreams And Regrets

( Private to Romilda Vane )


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I found this amongst some papers in a house out in the Borderlands. It made me smile.

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And also this. I believe the person who used to live there was a fan of Calvin & Hobbes.

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Women are absolutely insane

I don't know how I did this the first time with

It seemed particularly sunny today, but the clouds have come in and it smells like snow. Fancy that. Snow in October.

Well, if the arsonist was, in fact, from Lancaster, I'm thinking they're thinking they've managed to accomplish basically what they set out to. Half the city's in an uproar and the other half can't be arsed to come out of their flats. Logged more hours on the walls this week covering for nervous bastards than I have in months.

Probably a delicate procedure, removing their heads from their arses, but it might be a worthwhile investment. Maybe.


( Private to Morag MacDougal )


( Private to Romilda Vane )

You know what I miss most on days like today? Tissues. Just plain old tissues. The soft kind with lotion in them that didn't rub your nose completely raw. Maybe those shouldn't be qualified as 'plain,' but Christ. What I wouldn't do for a box of Kleenex or something. And not even for myself. Mellie, one of the girls who lives in the next flat over, she's got this cough and I swear, it's like her lungs are trying to forcibly expel themselves from her chest.

Most disturbing sound you can possibly imagine at three bloody o'clock in the morning. Says they won't let her go into work at The Swan because of it. Can't say as I blame them. Nobody wants a bird, no matter how pretty, hacking up bits of lung into their drinks.


( Private to Megan Jones )


( Private to Hannah Abbott )


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Checked my PO Box for the first time in a while. Got a notice. Seems we get to have happy, group bonding time this Sunday. Yay militia team spirit.

Fucking hell. I need a drink.

"There exists a second ending to the story of O, according to which O, seeing that Sir Stephen was about to leave her, said she would prefer to die. Sir Stephen gave her his consent."

Bollocks.

I agree with Jean Paulhan. There's no fucking way Sir Stephen'd consent to her death. That's just bollocks.


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Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

That's by Robert Frost. I don't have a book or anything, so I can't remember all of it, but I think I remember it being called 'Reluctance.' Seems to fit, in a weird way. Though what it's fitting, I'm not really sure.

Got bitten by something out in the Borderlands. Not sure what. Don't think it was parasitic, at least. Just left a great, bloody welt on my leg. Literally bloody, not the sacrilegious kind. Kind of makes me wonder if anybody actually remembers why 'bloody' is considered a swear word. It's to do with the blood of Christ, but I don't think most people care one way or the other.


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The kid next door's sick. Nobody's really sure with what. I've given them some things, but I'm not sure what good that'll do. Willow bark only does so much, after all. Told his dad to take him to St. Helen's. I'm off for the evening, so I was thinking I'd head out through the Borderlands a bit, scuff around to see about finding some trade-able shite.

Have a ton of watercress, actually. Might make soup. Need a pot, though.

1 large buch watercress
butter
1 onion, chopped
2 large parsley sprigs
2 large thyme sprigs
1 large garlic clove
1 bay leaf
2 cups chicken stock
Potatoes, cut into 1/2 inch pieces
1 cup milk (maybe two)

Looks like I need butter and the herbs. Might want to put some actual chicken in there, if I can bloody well find any. Whoever keeps stealing and killing chickens without actually eating them... I'm tempted to find them and fucking throttle them.

Anyway, anybody have any of that stuff, let me know. I'll give you some of the soup for your help making it.

So somebody's been stealing chickens in Outer York. Not really sure how that helps anybody, since they're not turning up anywhere else, so they're not being traded. And you can only do so much with a chicken by itself, no rooster. But chicken theft's a far sight better than the domestic issues we kept having to call the Hit Wizards in on last month. Sent more kids to the bloody Minster than I'd ever thought to see going, if I'm being honest.

Shitty part of the job, you want my honest opinion.

Also shitty? Finding out that kinky blokes aren't just kinky blokes. Hidden depths, people. They're not always the best things to show off after a fucking brilliant shag.

So that kid we found the other day? On the walls near HQ? He died. They're not sure what it was that did it, but he's gone.

Kind of makes you think, doesn't it?

I'm out in the Borderlands today, west of the city. Looks like it should at least not rain, though I can't say we're really expecting much in the way of sun.

Merc seems to have found himself something rather more substantial than a mouse for dinner tonight - would that he could find me something similar. The ingrate. Of course, I'd not take any of what he had to offer if he offered it - eating after a cat has never seemed a particularly hygienic sort of thing, I'm sure others would agree. He's not even my cat. Makes me wonder what keeps him coming back to the building. Maybe somebody feeds him, though who'd have the extra to spare and the gumption to transport it to militia headquarters is beyond me.

Another night on the walls, another night watching the fires, trying to make out the smallest speck of movement on the grounds below - it's easier to see dust in sunlight. At least that highlights a vibrant white. Nothing came for us, though, so the night was silent - or as silent as it ever gets in a city packed so full of people.

There was a child left on the steps. A newborn. We took him to the Minster - what else were we to do? His mother was gone - likely by her own choice. These are hardly times to birth and raise children. Still, a part of me condemns her for giving him away so easily. It seems that no one quite understands the idea of a child being one of the most important things in their life - at least no one who's never had children. I should qualify that, lest I have hoards of angry parents disputing my logic.

Who abandons a baby on the walls?

It was better than a dumpster, though, and that's how things used to go. Perhaps whoever did it knew the schedule, knew we'd be coming off duty just then. It doesn't make the discovery any easier. Hopefully they'll find someone to care for him at the Minster. Or through the Minster, at any rate. It's a sad thing, realising that even the Minster could give him to someone far worse than the people who abandoned him.