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the lonely hoot of a horn outside
Jul. 4th, 2006 01:04 amI now have a location for the upcoming Wagamama in Leeds, which is scheduled to open at the "end of July". I must wander along there in my lunch break tomorrow or something, and see if there are any visual signs of its forthcoming presence yet. (Deep and sinister motivation: I plan to take my coworkers there for the traditional birthday lunch on my birthday, since the person whose birthday it is is the one who gets to pick the restaurant. Hopefully I won't frighten off too many of them.)
Hot, though not as hot as in the south of England. I'm grateful for the air conditioning at work.
My mother has got her MSc in Information Management! She studied for it while holding down her regular job, which is doubly cool. I'm so extremely pleased. She goes for the formal presentation up to London on Wednesday. I understand thunderstorms are forecast.
---
Jamie was sititng on a chair in the corridor, writing.
"The Doctor told me to do it," he said with a shrug. "I thought I'd better go along with it. He seemed in a bit of an odd mood."
Victoria glanced at the words painstakingly printed on the sheet of paper:
I MUST NOT STICK BIG KNIFS IN EXTINCT ANIMALS JUST BECAUSE I DONT LIK THE LOOK OF THEM.
I MuST NOT STIK BIG KNIVES IN ESTINCT ANIMALS JUST BECAS I DON'T LIKE THE LOOK OF EM.
I MUS NOT STICK BIG KNIFES IN EXTINCT ANIMALS JUsT BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE A LOOK OF THEM . . .
. . . and so on, with the minor variations in spelling and punctuation of one only exposed to the joys of literacy in later life.
Victoria sighed and moved on; sometimes the Doctor was too like a supercilious old school teacher for words.
As she passed what was usually, in the strange spaces within the TARDIS, a cloakroom closet she heard within it the sound of a rather mournful penny whistle. She paused for a moment, considering, then opened the door.
The Doctor was hanging by his knees from a coat rail. On the floor of the closet were stacks of writing paper, each stack coming up to Victoria's hips. The visible pages were covered with tiny, neat copperplate handwriting reading:
I must not, through my own carelessness and conceit, allow the deaths of innocents that can in any way be prevented.
I must not, through my own carelessness and conceit, allow the deaths of innocents that can in any way be prevented . . .
-- Heart of TARDIS, Dave Stone
Hot, though not as hot as in the south of England. I'm grateful for the air conditioning at work.
My mother has got her MSc in Information Management! She studied for it while holding down her regular job, which is doubly cool. I'm so extremely pleased. She goes for the formal presentation up to London on Wednesday. I understand thunderstorms are forecast.
---
Jamie was sititng on a chair in the corridor, writing.
"The Doctor told me to do it," he said with a shrug. "I thought I'd better go along with it. He seemed in a bit of an odd mood."
Victoria glanced at the words painstakingly printed on the sheet of paper:
I MUST NOT STICK BIG KNIFS IN EXTINCT ANIMALS JUST BECAUSE I DONT LIK THE LOOK OF THEM.
I MuST NOT STIK BIG KNIVES IN ESTINCT ANIMALS JUST BECAS I DON'T LIKE THE LOOK OF EM.
I MUS NOT STICK BIG KNIFES IN EXTINCT ANIMALS JUsT BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE A LOOK OF THEM . . .
. . . and so on, with the minor variations in spelling and punctuation of one only exposed to the joys of literacy in later life.
Victoria sighed and moved on; sometimes the Doctor was too like a supercilious old school teacher for words.
As she passed what was usually, in the strange spaces within the TARDIS, a cloakroom closet she heard within it the sound of a rather mournful penny whistle. She paused for a moment, considering, then opened the door.
The Doctor was hanging by his knees from a coat rail. On the floor of the closet were stacks of writing paper, each stack coming up to Victoria's hips. The visible pages were covered with tiny, neat copperplate handwriting reading:
I must not, through my own carelessness and conceit, allow the deaths of innocents that can in any way be prevented.
I must not, through my own carelessness and conceit, allow the deaths of innocents that can in any way be prevented . . .
-- Heart of TARDIS, Dave Stone
