Things Katy does.
I haven't kept a television set for nearly five years, but television fascinates me. I can trace this fascination to a single program, starting one evening at my grandparent's house.
One evening just after dinner I was watching the little black and white portable television in the spare room and, on a whim and for the first time ever, watched a whole episode of Doctor Who. I was hooked.
One night last year I was sitting at my computer here in my tiny flat, and heard amplified fiddle playing in the near distance. I couldn't make out the tune, but the optimist in me thought that maybe it was an Irish folk band, and that I should go out and investigate. It was getting dark, and I was knackered, so I didn't want to change into my baggy old fat man clothes to do so, and I did what I had never done before: I went outside dressed as me.
Now "me" is an old lady in high-waist mum jeans, t-shirt, and cardigan, so this isn't all that scandalous. But it was the first time I'd ever gone outside without making an effort to look vaguely like a man. As I rounded the corner into Lygon Street, I started feeling a bit exposed. I also couldn't hear the music any more. This made no sense. It's Carlton; where else but Lygon Street is music going to come from?
I'm often amused when I see schoolchildren here in the Far Future. It's the uniforms with floppy broad-brimmed hats and light, loose, long sleeves, and faces shimmering with youth and multiple coats of SPF 50+.
I had a phone call yesterday.
I only get phone calls from three sources: my mother, who calls at precisely the same time every week; my best friend, who calls when walking the dog around a neighbourhood so tediously uniform that even listening to me drone on about my aches and pains leavens the experience somewhat; and robo-scammers. Anybody else texts or emails. Presumably for fear of interrupting my busy schedule. Or hearing about my aches and pains.
And it was from "Private Number", so either it was a robo-scammer, or possibly a government department which had suddenly "discovered" that I owed them thousands of dollars and could I please pay them by the end of the week, otherwise they'd take away my Low Income Health Care Concession Card and issue a Katy Should Pay Double For Absolutely Everything Card.
[The reader is advised to to hear the following in an Alan Bennett-style northern lilt.]
I feel torn between congratulating myself on how much I achieved this year, and chiding myself over what I didn't do. It's just my way, I suppose.
It seems hard to believe now, but the most I'd ever done prior to 2023 was to occasionally sneak out onto the back stairs of Hellscape Court with a glass of wine, late at night when I was reasonably certain the psychopaths had all passed out.
Today's life lesson is this:
Don't engage in an activity if, on the basis of what you know about yourself and the activity, there are reasonable grounds for believing it will likely be injuriously habit-forming.
It's not pithy; I'll work on it later. What brings it to mind is my need for a good old moan at the moment.
I'm a touch unwell just now.
I started using alcohol in my late teens because I was not a happy little Vegemite, and I wanted to die. So my problems were twofold:
I found that being slightly tipsy most of the time and very, very drunk the rest of the time solved the proximate issue, while ensuring that I was steadily working toward the larger objective.
I went into town for the last of 10 prepaid face-laserings this afternoon. Got an even more cursory treatment than usual from a new girl more intent on thoroughly dealing with her chewing gum than my face.
I said I was happy with results so far, and mainly concerned now with the (still quite blue) beer froth zone around my lips.
She worked a rather eccentric path around my neck, diligently chewing all the while, and quickly pronounced me done.
When I pointed out that she had stayed well clear of the region that I'd particularly wanted her to focus on, she apologised and quickly administered a few cursory blasts, but far fewer than I was used to.
Back out at the counter staffed by a clump of four or five more ardent gum-chewers, I was asked if I wanted to make another appointment, and braced myself for an upselling. But on telling them that this was the last episode of the current series, they seemed reluctant to renew the show for another year.
A while ago, somebody asked about the process by which the various trans women of the Fediverse (about 99% of the denizens of the Fediverse, at last count) came by their current name. I've had mine for the last five years now, and have recently made it official with various branches of the bureaucracy. To the best of my recollection I arrived at it like like so.