Friday, August 26, 2011

For The Love Of Pizza

  Lots of news, pielovers. first most and foremost, Wednesday the very 24th of August, was the day the world (or his mother, but quibbles) gave us Stephen Fry. I celebrated by using big words at people and reading some more. I suppose I'm not a party animal, but I can at the very least be a celebratory arthropod. As you should know by now, Stephen Fry is both the For The Love Of Pie mascot, and on our coat of arms.

Disembodied head of slightly creepy Stephen Fry on a pale of azure on another kind of azure, little hearts gules dexter and sinister, or whatever.

   I would lead you in a rousing rendition of our school song, but I've neglectfully forgotten to write one for you. I suggest you each choose your favourite Cream song and simply hum it to yourself for pleasure.
   I do think though, to honour our mascot, we must have a quote. 

   That quote is from his book, The Liar, thought by Adrian as he fancies himself playing God sorting potatoes on a line. It was between that quote and one with a delightfully filthy word in it, but in the end I decided to spare any delicate sensibilities the offence of country matters.
   I truly am so thankful that we have Stephen Fry in this life; he has so greatly given me the English language, I fear I'd be mute without him. Let's hope he sticks around a great many more years, the better to balance out the vacuum left by such entities as Justin Bieber and Paris Hilton.

   So, let's talk pizza. I had some. Last night was monthly pizza night, and frankly diet be damned. I've actually found it's less what I eat than how much of it I eat, when I eat it, and what I drink during the day. I've cut out most (MOST, I say, MOST) of my sugary drink intake, and replaced it with a worrying quantity of water. I've taken to eating my dinner really early- almost as a late-ish lunch- and then not snacking again until I go to sleep. But when I do eat, I eat just what I damn well please, and it's working, it seems. 
   So until it fucks my scale, I refuse to shun pizza, pies or anything that forces itself down my throat like hara-kiri pastry in favour of enjoying myself at least marginally.

   Side note, this happened:

   Fair to say, my head asplode. I'm not particularly hip, I'm very much up where the kids today are down with one thing or another, and this whole twitter business is almost as new to me as it is to my mother. ("But the mouse won't reach the little icon, and I've got it up against the keyboard already!") I follow my favourite gods on twitter, and the whole Whedon clan is in there. For you, savy and technologically on trend reader and loyal blog-scoffer, a reply from someone as smoking as Mo Tancharoen may well be just another part of getting up in the morning. I, however, lost all of my shit. All of it, gone. Shitless. She who is Kilo and the frontperson for Lupus awareness and of the golden voice and SPARTACUS and wife to the most deliriously enviable husband; she doth replied.
   I spent several minutes after that rushing my entire blood supply to just my cheeks, looking like a surprised beet for approximately two hours. This is a habit my body has helpfully picked up: at night, my cheeks go from pasty white, to "slipped a bit on the blush there, did you dear?", to dark purple. When I say purple, I mean actual aubergine, I exaggerate not. Imagining Mo Tancharoen sitting there hopefully in her PJ's, slouched over a computer much as I am now was obviously just too much for my delicate system to handle.

   My Word of the Day email today was thusly:
   This seems to me to be a word I can so easily imagine coming from Sheldon's mouth, no? Or perhaps Moffat's Sherlock. I'm still deciding, but it's a wealth of possibilities. I like it.


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