I will begin by saying that I am utterly addicted to sun-dried tomatoes. You know, the ones you get in jars? Yes, those ones. I eat them with a fork straight out of the jar, the same way I would drink milk from the carton. If I liked milk, that is. Which I don't.
I do the same with olives.
Odd, you ask? Then again, maybe you don't ask, maybe you are already charging the stun-guns and have made my bed up in the mental institute, complete with screw-down chairs and any variety of sedatives.
But we're digressing . . . I say 'we,' but really I mean 'I,' as you are the silent listener, just as you might be (and I, for that matter) in one of Browning's poems. I shan't have liked to have been married to the Duke, though I suppose if I were Lord Voldie I would as then I would forever be immortalized. But I would be dead, which I suppose is a downside . . .
You may very well think me mad. But if you knew me (which I am guessing you don't, as many of you are either from the tea-drinking land of Great Britain, where I am from, or from the latte-drinking land of America, where I have lived, and I am now in the beer-drinking-wherever-possible-whenever-possible-land of Bonnie Australia) you would believe this to be quite normal. Sadly, I am not normal, and neither are those who know me, for even ten minutes in my presence can turn the most normal person into someone completely and utterly non-normal. Indeed, you may well already feel the tendencies of insanity and lunacy coming on. If this is the case, please feel free to see our house-expert in this area, Dr Luna Lovegood (Please take a number and wait in our waiting room, where there are enough copies of Crochet Monthly to turn anyone mad . . .
I am currently wearing a crotched hat, jumper, trousers, stilettos and even underwear. As you can see, I have spent many a day in that waiting room, that can only be described as a cross between a retirement village and the audience of The Jerry Springer Show . . .
Springer Show has a certain sibilance to it, much like my most beloved character, Severus Snape. He is by far the most interesting character, and I am a proud sailor of the Hermione/Severus ship, and why I have not yet written a fanfic surrounding this is beyond me, but then again I am wearing crotched knickers . . .
That is a rather scary image, and I do apologize for that. Another scary image is that of Raegan in The Exorcist Director's Cut going down the stairs backwards like a crab when everyone is fooled into thinking that it is the bed being moved by the possessed Raegan again that is making all of the thumping noises . . .
Yes, my name is Tickled Pink and I am a horror movie addict. This is my first meeting at HMAA (Horror Movie Addicts Anonymous) and I look forward to meeting with you all in the future, unless of course I am possessed by the devil, wake up in a room with my leg chained to a bathtub, start seeing dead people, sign up as the caretaker of a hotel abandoned for the winter, invoke the help of Hannibal Lector to help me catch another deranged yet brilliant murderer, or watch a movie ending with a lovely telephone call from Samara informing me of my regretful yet imminent death in seven days, unless I email her chain mail to everyone in my contact list within that time, in which case I will have good luck for the next seven days. If any of the above do occur, I am very sorry, but my absence just could not be helped.
To ensure all of my lovely fans that I am not just some weird horror movie freak, I also love huskies, snowboarding, lazy days spent in bed with a book and tea while it is raining outside, hedgohogs, compliments from strangers, writing, the movie Wimbledon, houses that are hundreds of years old with a history, my new red shoes, the first snow of the season, English, Irish and Scottish accents, sunflowers, British comedy from the eighties and nineties, Jack Johnson, willow trees, Harry Potter, my biology class (hilarious people), that moment when you don't care whose watching, let yourself go, and dance, people who plant Oak trees for the next generation, the author John Marsden, my pet snake named Monty (well, I thought I was being original when I was ten), Johnny Depp, Grey's Anatomy, my dog's reaction when I am the first one home, the colour red, and, of course, Crochet Monthly, but then again, I am quite mad . . .
I belong in Alice In Wonderland.
At the Mad Hatter's tea party of course. I am, after all, British.
Summary: Names became places and places became fallen.
Once we were brave ...
A short poem about Voldemort's victory and reflections from the last survivors. My apologies, it is a little depressing, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
Summary: What happens when the man Hermione feels far too embarrassed to ever see again (due to events entirely out of her control ... well, almost ... ) turns up as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? The War is raging, the N.E.W.T.s are approaching, and the only question circling through Hermione's head (much to her annoyance) is whether or not five years older is too old.
It seems to be out of her control once again; avoiding Oliver Heaney for her entire seventh year seems not only difficult, but well near impossible ...
Excerpt from Chapter Eight
Oliver was a nervous wreck all through his seventh year class.
It took all of his will-power not to glance Hermione’s way every three seconds. He risked it only a handful of times, making sure never to do so when her face was looking in even remotely his direction.
As is usual with one who is out of control of a course of events one began, Oliver began to panic. Second-guessing himself was not something Oliver was prone to, and yet here he was, asking himself those terrifying questions. Did she get the note? Has she read it yet? What if it was all a bad idea? What if it all went horribly wrong?
What if she took the note straight to Minerva and told her everything?
Don't worry, this story hasn't been abandoned, just moving in a different direction than I originally planned!