Today, on my day off, I helped a friend do something she was doing for another friend.
There is sooo much wrong with me. On the plus side they were little, couldn't talk, didn't mind me and were easy to sling around. Also the friend owes me lunch now.
On an unrelated note, go see Sherlock Holmes. Just do it. Enjoyed the cutest damn couple ever. It's got me writing fic, dammit, and Sherlock makes a highly educated asshole of a muse. (see earlier post).
I've read all the original writings, it was a while ago but Im going to reread them. I have this very clear memory of being ridiculously pleased with myself because out of, oh, something like fiftyseven mysteries, I solved ONE myself. The very last one, with the deadman at the seaside.
It was also my first thousand page book.
I recommend the books and the movie.
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