Digesting A Fill Of Midnight

Sleeping in an unventilated room after a curry has its bad points.

That is my first thought for the day.

I drift up from a bizarre dream about kneeing the late Dennis Hopper repeatedly in the groin. As I sit up in bed, the stone-cold sober reason for this violent reverie slips beyond my beyond my reach, and I am left wondering what it was all about.

The room is dark, the shadows in the corner still digesting their fill of midnight, but some sun is visible at the edges of the blackout curtains; it's daylight out.

My second profound thought for the day is that something is wrong. That something other than the smell is demanding my attention.

I have learned the hard way to pay attention to these feelings.

I squint at the clock, sans spectacles; it looks like 7:30. Do I need to be somewhere? I think hard for a moment and finally decide that it's Thursday. Last day of June. Thirty days hath September, April, June and... okay, Thursday June 30th. Nope, nowhere to be. Well, not urgently, anyway. Just the office when I get there.

I'm thirsty and take a long drink from the pint of Summer Fruits on the bedside table. Do I need to pee, maybe? Nope.

I swing my legs off the bed and hear myself cough. The dim room suddenly feels airless and small. Panicked, I stumble across to the window and tear the curtains apart. Bright, warm sunlight explodes into the room, but a second's work with a handle adds the noise and the refreshing air of the street into the mix.

I stand, clinging onto the frame, almost gasping. What the hell is wrong with me? I've not felt claustrophobic like that in years.

A motorist blows his horn and shouts something cheerily offensive my way. I realise that I'm naked and in full view of the street. A passing police horse whinnies nervously.

Stepping back from the window, I realise I'm standing on my discarded clothes from the night before; I've trampled them almost flat in fact. Good grief, that's impressive; I must need to shed a few pounds? I lower myself onto the edge of my bed and try to gather my thoughts.

What set me off? What am I trying to remember? A doctor's appointment? The dentist? No on both counts.

The corner of the room to the left of the window catches my eye. Something looks out of place. Has a picture fallen off the wall? Nope, and my hat's still hanging there. I stare at it for a while, but it's like one of those tedious spot the difference puzzles, and my attention wanders.

I yawn and rest my head in my hands. A breeze moves past me, and I jerk up, startled. My empty bedroom yawns back at me.

Get a grip, Indigo. Get on with the day.

I yawn and shuffle off towards the bathroom. Gathering my towels, I dump them on the edge of the sink opposite the shower. I open the bathroom window to get some air through, and again stand taking lungfuls of fresh air.

The breeze closes the bathroom door behind me.

There's traces of the smell from the bedroom in here, and I wonder if I might have trodden something unmentionable upstairs from the street. Looking down, I see a few strands of dry grass that I must have carried in from the garden somehow, but nothing that looks responsible for the earthy, almost animal odour.

I struggle with the shower door; it seems jammed. Getting it open halfway, I start the shower and squeeze inside a few seconds later. The water is cool and refreshing as I shampoo and rinse. As I lather up some shower gel, it occurs to me that I may have overlooked someone's birthday.

My recent record has not been good; I forgot iDifficult's 'til midday, and almost forgot Yavin's completely. Both were cool about my absent-mindedness, but I wasn't. My memory seems rather detached of late. Perhaps the humidity of the early English summer is not agreeing with me? I'm not sleeping well.

Damn, I have soap in my eye. A quick rinse doesn't help, and I rub at it as I fumble with the shower door. It opens easily, and I stretch blindly across in the direction of the sink. Miraculously, my grope finds a towel first time, and I dab the liquid away until the stinging stops. Tossing the towel back, I retreat to the cubible and finish up.

A few minutes later, I step out and take the worst of the water off. The room seems darker now; the sun must have retreated behind clouds. Absently, I hear myself clear my throat again. For the second time, a small small room feels suddenly smaller, and claustrophobia rises in me. Opening the bathroom door with a clatter, I step through and close it behind me hurriedly.

Okay. Wow. That's better. What is wrong with you, Roth?

As I head through to my bedroom, I notice more dry grass on the landing, and resolve to vacuum when I get home from work. My head feels clearer as I finish drying off, and everything now looks to be in its place. I quickly slip into today's clothes, put my glasses on, and head downstairs for breakfast.

Five minutes later, I sip at my sweet black coffee in my kitchen diner and spoon down some bran flakes with cold milk. Everything tastes delicious, and the room is bright and open. I'm still bemused by my panicky episodes upstairs.

On cue, the bathroom door rattles. I sigh. Damn, I've left the windows open; I'll need to head back up before I leave the house. Suddenly aware of the wind outside, I listen to the house move around me. The floorboards of the landing complain of some lost burden, and then the stairs creak gently on the edge of my hearing.

After washing my bowl and cup, I turn as the hallway darkens a little and then brightens again; wow, the wind must be really driving the clouds past the sun. Moving into the hallway, I remember the windows, and step upstairs to close them and fetch my cellphone. It takes all of thirty seconds to reach the hall again, and I sit at the foot of the stairs to put my shoes on.

As I gaze towards the front door, something nags at me, and I get another sense that I am overlooking something.

Something really big.

A few seconds later I'm relieved to step into the street and slam the door behind me. Heaving a sigh, I gaze up at a radiant sun in a cloudless sky. A gentle breeze stirs the early morning air.

Wow, I'm really out of sorts this morning.

I decide to walk to work. It's a beautiful day, and the walk will help clear the inexplicable claustrophobia from my head.

Humming a cheery tune, I stroll away from the house.


As the front door slams, the elephant stands in the hallway by the front door and marvels at the dogged fool retreating down the path.

The elephant is used to being ignored by a group of embarrassed or blinkered people in a room; these days, it is almost his job description.

But he's never been ignored by one man on his own.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

The Surprise Of Summer Fruits

Hey Indigo, what are you doing down there?

Oh, hey Bear. I'm sitting in this hole.

Uh huh. Why?

It's just where I am today.

Okaaay. Hey, is it like sitting in a cave?

Yep, same thing.

Okay, I understand now. Can I get you anything?

Nah, I'm good, thanks.

You're sure?

Well, a fresh drink would be nice.

Have this one. Catch.

Thanks. Summer Fruits. Nice. Damn.

What?

I still can't get a signal.

You need to make a call?

Well no, not exactly. But I want to order pizza.

Want me to do it for you?

Would you mind?

Not at all. The usual?

Please. You know what I like. Want to stay and share?

No, but thanks. I get the hole thing. Solitary. Check.

Righto.

Will they deliver to a hole?

I once had them deliver to a moving bicycle.

Right. Okay, well, I'll explain. Shouldn't be a thing.

That'd be great, I appreciate it. Can we settle up another day?

Sure, I'll take care of it. And I'll leave the umbrella. It looks like rain.

No need, I'll be fine. It seems appropriate somehow.

Okay. Right, I'm off. See you when you get out.

Will do. Oh, and Bear?

Yeah?

Thanks, man.

No problem.



Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Walking Back Into Memory

I wander downstairs to answer the sunshine knock at the door.

The hall clock points to nine. I've slept in. I'm late for work.

It occurs to me that I'm dressed only in my underpants and feeling more than a little portly today, but I can see it's the postman. He's a pleasant chap by the name of Dave, and I don't think I'll offend him by appearing in my unmentionables.

I unlock the door as Dave's silhouette patiently whistles an elusive tune. He gives me a cheery wave through the textured glass door. I wonder if I look slimmer from Dave's side? Seconds later, I open the door to see the smiling postie. He salutes smartly and meets my gaze, ignoring my semi-nakedness.

Good morning Mr. Roth, Sir! I have to give him points for professionalism.

Hey Dave, I mumble sleepily. He has a large, enticing-looking parcel. It's wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. What've you got for me this morning?

Well, I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Roth, he says, somewhat abashed, but I've a parcel for your neighbour but there's no reply next door. Would you mind taking it in?

Oh.

Sure. Of course. Nothing for me? I ask as I take the parcel. I was hoping there'd be some goodies today.

No Mr. Roth, sorry! He shrugs, Sometime soon tho, I'm sure. He snaps off another salute that would shame a Wing Commander. See you tomorrow Sir! And thank you!

I smile and he turns and walks off down the path.

I sigh and sit down on the doorstep. I feel crushed for no good reason. The sun is bright and hot, and there is no breeze. The humidity is uncomfortable, and I can feel the rising edge of a headache. There must be a storm coming.

Ten yards away on the tree-lined summer path, a mother walks by with a toddler. The boy points at me and giggles, but the mother hustles it past with a hissed scold.

I'm not looking forward to the day, and it's barely started.

Unexpectedly, a pair of warm, gentle arms encircle me from behind. A delicious scent of vanilla entices my senses as the warm face nuzzles up to mine. There's a sleepy kiss to my cheek.

Morning Babe, she murmurs, as her long red hair tumbles over my shoulder. Are you coming back to bed?

God, that sounds wonderful. Beautiful oblivion.

No, I have to get to work, I find myself saying. What?

The arms hug me tighter. Oh, do you have to? There's a gentle Scots lilt to the voice.

Of course I bloody don't! Why would I want to?

Yep, 'fraid so. Again, my voice is working solo in defiance of my brain. The arms slide away, and she sighs her disappointment.

I stand and turn into the sunlit hallway, closing the door behind me.

She stands, tall and slim, all red hair, brown eyes and freckles. I recognise her from TV. She's wearing one of my shirts. It's way too big on her. Damn, it's a good look.

Are you sure? she asks, with just a hint of coyness. My libido growls.

Yes, I nod sadly. I wander over and take her hands. You know, I confess, I move in fairly strange circles. I kiss the top of her head on an impulse, somehow knowing it will be my last chance. But I know that you're Fiction.

She hugs herself into me and whispers, Sometime soon you'll learn to relax, Indigo. There's an abyssal sadness in her next words.

You can't do all this on your own.

And she turns and walks up the stairs and back into memory.

Wait...

I wake in my bed, disoriented. I cannot smell vanilla. There has never been vanilla in this room. I feel profoundly alone.

Sunlight slices through the smallest of cracks in the curtains, and I can already feel the humidity of the day in the early morning room. My head aches. There's a storm coming.

Sometimes my dreams are way too literal. Sometimes they're mundane. And sometimes they're just plain mean.

I have no idea whose side my subconscious is on most of the time.

I need to do something with my life. It won't be easy, or even today.

But it will have to be sometime soon.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010
Thanks to Faye Pekas for the clock photo

Super Rare Holographic Clergy

The engine ticks over quietly as I run my eyes down the list.

I'm in the driver's seat, and the passenger door is open.

Somewhere behind me at the back of the car, my best friend iDifficult is having a hard time closing the trunk. A couple of dull slams are clearly unsuccessful; something is in the way. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach down to push something securely inside, and then he slams it down one final time.

A few seconds later he flops into the passenger seat.

Problems? I ask him, as I continue perusing the list.

Sorted! he replies brightly, brushing the enquiry aside. So, how are we doing?

Pretty good, I was just checking the list. I glance at the bag at his feet which contains at least some of our shopping. So, do we have... A mango?

He peeps into the bag and extracts a fine example of the green-orange fruit. Check. The part-time evil genius sniffs the mango speculatively. I tick the box.

Okay, next. A number plate?

He gingerly lifts the end of a yellow plate from the bag and lets it drop back into place. I wonder where the jam-stains on it came from.

Check. Tick. Next!

Manhole cover? I ask, remembering suddenly where we lifted it from. A lopsided smile creeps onto my face as I wonder how they'll explain its absence from Downing Street. England's finest madman jerks a thumb over his shoulder. On the back seat. Check.

It occurs to me that an oily metal disk might not be good for the upholstery.

Did you, um, put a plastic bag down? I enquire as casually as I can, ticking the box.

He seems shifty. I think so, he says, not meeting my eye. Next!

Particle accelerator?

Again, 'Difficult rummages in the bag. Just a small one. My best work, even if I do say so myself. Makes CERN's look like a dog race. Check. Tick.

Okay, next. Neon restaurant sign? I notice a scribbled addendum. Must be operational.

Check. I notice the cable that runs from the bag, passing out through the window to the back end of the car. I've got it rigged up to the particle accelerator.

I decide to not ask if that's as dangerous as it sounds.

Police car?

He looks sideways at me and deadpans without irony or reproach, You're driving it.

Oh. Right. Yes. Tick.

As I watch 'Difficult, a penny drops into place, and his eyes light up. Ooh, can we play with the siren? I stare at him blankly. I've always wanted to dash across town with the sirens blaring. He does a very passable impression of the event with howling and hand-waving. It'd be so cool to go visit a drive-through with the blue lights flashing!

Actually, that does sound like fun.

Later, I concede, we're incognito for now. He pouts slightly. Look, I remind him, we did well to shake the police off earlier.

He huffs, but knows I'm right. Next!

Suddenly, there's a thumping from the back of the car. We both glance back but see nothing there. Immediately, it's obvious that it must be coming from the trunk. It sounds like someone kicking.

And of course... I say, scanning down the list with my pencil.

Thump thump thump. An Anglican Archbishop! we chorus.

That one gets a big fat tick.

You know, reflects 'Difficult, we're doing really well today. And we may have just clinched the win. I'm lifted by this; a positive attitude is always good for team morale.

Oh? Do you think so?

Well, there can't be that many Archbishops, right?

Yes, that's true. The logic is, as always, impeccable.

And we've got the head man; the Archbishop of Canterbury.

And it is true. If there was an album of Panini collectible stickers for the Clergy of the United Kingdom 2010, he'd be the super-rare, holographic one.

I nod. He was surprisingly good-humoured about it, too.

My friend coughs and mumbles, Not after I shut his leg in the trunk, he wasn't.

I sigh. Well, I'm sure he's full of forgiveness.

Maybe the skunk he's in there with is less relaxed? muses 'Difficult.

Oooh, good point. I check down the list again. Skunk. Tick.

We both draw a long cautious breath and let it go. It's been a long day, though an exciting one, but we're not losing our heads.

So, what's next? asks 'Difficult, popping on his blue-and-red 3D prescription spectacles, and looking at his hand, fascinated.

I notice that there's just one unticked box on the list.

Final item; a national monument.

We sit and think for a moment.

I still have that equipment that accidentally grabbed the Eiffel Tower?

I chuckle; now that was an afternoon. I've never been in a police line-up before. Fun, but I'm not sure I'm in a hurry to do it again; they know my address now.

Hmmm, not sure. I think they might have meant an English one?

'Difficult rubs his chin. It rasps manfully. Such as?

Well... I pull a name from thin air and shrug, Tower Bridge?

Excitedly, my friend leaps out of open door of the car.

I'll go warm up the Sub! He whips out his cellphone and starts barking orders into it as I put the car into gear.

Such enthusiasm, but I can hardly blame him.

The Annual Evil Genius Scavenger Hunt is always good fun.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Bucket Of Iced Water

I am profoundly moved tonight.

I've just come back from a local music venue in Cambridge.

I saw BLONDIE. Yep, BLONDIE.

Heart Of Glass, Call Me, Atomic, The Tide Is High, Maria, remember?

And tonight they were bloody marvellous.

Better yet, Debbie Harry, as beautiful and sexy as hell, did the whole show just for me. That's right, for me.

There were many hundreds of people there, of course, and it's possible I was a little overwhelmed, but that's what it felt like.

I even got a sexy little wave, and I don't believe that was my imagination.

(Well, I am a foot taller than everyone else.)

I think the cream of the back catalogue was covered, plus a surprisingly strong selection from the new album, Panic Of Girls.

And the whole thing was fabulous. Chris, Clem, Debbie - thank you.

I must go shower now, as I've had my most energetic workout of the year, and I'm probably a little manly.

Singing? Check. I'm hoarse.

Dancing? Check. I got hips, no kidding. I'd forgotten, too!

Hormones? Check. Oh my, yes. Like a teenager.

Best make that shower a cold one.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

A Disconcerting Little Tune

The fine white sand is almost too hot to walk on as I make my way up towards the beach.

The approach to the seafront is slightly uphill, and gently winds it way between tall, closely-packed dunes. As I trudge through the sand with the picnic box, I wonder for the umpteenth time how tall the heavily-grassed sandhills are. Thirty feet? Forty? They must be all of that, as they block out the sun for most of the day.

But right now, the sun is overhead and midday fierce.

Mad dogs and Englishmen, I mutter absently.

Talking of which, as I crest the rise at the top of the dunes and step onto the narrow beach, I am greeted by England’s finest madman. My best friend, iDifficult, Evil Genius by Royal Appointment, sits on a old-fashioned deckchair under a huge, flat parasol. He is resplendent in an elbow-length, black-and-white-striped Victorian bathing suit. The dark sunglasses and close cropped hair are his norm, but the waxed, handlebar moustache is new and magnificent. The pink water-wings are a jaunty touch, too.

Roth! he cheers, Splendid to see you! He doesn’t rise, but waves cheerily with his right hand.

I notice his left hand is tied by a length of parcel string to an elephant.

The creature regards me incuriously for a moment, and then looks away to resume tossing sand idly over its shoulder with its trunk. I notice that the behemoth’s nose-limb is sporting a pair of mirrored pince-nez sunglasses. It gives it - him? - a faintly aristocratic air, despite the lack of clothes.

This all comes as no surprise, but I’m too hot and bothered from my short uphill walk to ask about my friend’s companion right now.

Grab a seat! enthuses ‘Difficult, indicating a spot beside him. Bring it over here, the shade is glorious!

I drag over the matching deckchair and fumble ineffectually with it for a moment. I've never liked the damned things; too fiddly to set up. Doing it one-handed while carrying a heavy insulated box is not helping matters either, so I put my burden down.

After what seems like five minutes cursing and wrestling, I ease myself into the wood-and-cloth seat wearily. The picnic box sits beside me.

There is a faint thumping from inside.

A martini appears in my hand, and I nod in thanks; my friend is a genial host.

I've brought the lobsters you wanted, I say, sipping the drink. It’s strong with a dash of kina lillet, and has two black kalamata olives on a stick. Just the way I like it.

Thanks. Did they give you any trouble?

This seems an odd question, but I have a equally odd recollection.

No, no problems, I say, popping the lid off the coldbox. The sound of snapping claws emerges and slowly intensifies. But I could have sworn these lads were dressed and cooked when I saw first saw them. I recall it vividly, in fact. You know, when I bought them from the deli at the supermarket.

Oh, they were! enthuses the mad genius, his eyes sparkling over the top of his shades. He adds in a hushed tone, I revivified them.

I glance down at the hostile contents of the cool hamper. And the hostile contents look right back at me, making it chillingly clear via pointed claws and antennae wiggles that I Should Watch My Step. I find the whole thing rather unsettling.

So these are… zombie lobsters? I lean back nervously, half expecting them to shuffle and moan.

No, not at all! laughs ‘Difficult. That’d be reanimation. Not to mention cruel and unusual. I just used the time machine to rewind them back to when they were still alive. He shrugs, They’re much happier this way. Besides, he grins, I can’t stand seafood.

And to make the point, he tips the box over in the direction of the surf. The lobsters and several gallons of water spill onto the sand with a hiss. There’s a moment of indecision from the crustaceans – attack or flee? But realising that discretion is the better part of not being eaten, the two marine arthropods make a break for the water. They eight-leg-it down the steep incline, claws waving, to where the beach and dunes vanish into the surf of the little horseshoe bay.

In a fistful of seconds, they’re gone.

We sip our drinks and take in the view. It really is rather beautiful. An endless ocean under sun, broken only by the occasional crumbling spire. Close to shore there are occasional glimpses of submerged atolls. Well, not so much atolls; more the remains of nearby houses.

It’s a shame about Cambridge, I say absently.

Yes, it’s hard to imagine this used to be your back garden.

We stand and turn to face the downward slope of the path. A hundred yards away, my little old house sits in a tiny sandy vale, dwarfed on three sides by the gigantic dunes. We stand at the other end of the long, thin rectangle of land. The dunes surround the entire thing, thick and tall and level, with us at the top of the upward slope.

Beyond us in all directions, almost level with the top of the dunes, is the sea.

I still find it alarming to see my house safely below sea level.

The badgers really did a grand job of… starts ‘Difficult, attempting to wave expansively. The string on his left hand reaches his limit and prevents this. He sighs. The elephant looks up at the tug on his foreleg. With a heaving grunt, the beast stands and moves a little closer.

I now feel inclined to ask, but I don’t like to interrupt.

As I was saying, repeats my friend, the badgers did a grand job of shoring this all up. His wave is extra-expansive now. He indicates the winding path up to where we’re standing. Adding the slope up here to make the beach was inspired. Imaginative landscaping.

Yep, I nod, Hoth and Sollust used it as their masterwork for The Guild. It took them a while, but apparently after everyone left the town it got easier.

The reply is quiet, introspective. We had plenty of warning, I suppose. He shakes his head ruefully. Seems stupid that we didn’t prevent it.

I can't disagree.

In the distance there’s a wide cluster of centuries-old spires from the university colleges. I can just make out tiny waves lapping against them gently; it’s a calm day at sea.

What’s the date? I ask on a whim, happy to change the subject.

June the seventh, comes the absent-minded reply. Why?

No, I mean what year is it?

Oh. 'Difficult fiddles in his pocket and hands me the core of the time machine. I glance at the brass, enamel and glass device, and shade it from the sun to read the display.

Good grief, I manage.

My friend removes his shades and looks my way.

Yes. Sooner than we think.

We stand for a while in silence and remember the town.

As we return to our seats, ‘Difficult is halted by the string again. But his companion ambles to catch us up, and ultimately throws his massive bulk down with us in the shade of the mighty parasol.

Now seems as good a time as any.

By the way, I've been meaning to ask... Why are you going around with this fella on a string?

Well, he’d get up to mischief otherwise, says the elephant, flashing me his Parole Officer ID with a flick of his trunk. An old, wise eye peeps from behind the mirrored shades.

I glance down at the empty picnic box and think of its previous occupants, while 'Difficult hums a disconcerting little tune to which only he knows the rhythm.

The elephant may have a point.

As the sun begins its descent into the west, the three of us gaze across the ever-changing water, and dream of what might have been.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

Hi all,

This is a quick awards entry. For those who don't like them, or don't want to spoil the surprise, look away from the screen now.

My dear friend CatLady has collared me this week, and accused me of being a fabulous liar. While I resent this (patently true) slur, I was brought up to respect my elders and so quietly accept this nifty little award from the fabulous “Boom Boom” Larew.

To accept this award, I’m supposed to the write a number of lies/truths about myself, one of which is the odd one out. This sounds an interesting exercise, but I have a simpler quiz for you – I challenge you to find the exceptional snippet of information in today’s entry.

There’s one, and only one. Whether it’s fact or fiction is up to you to decide, but I know which way I’d be leaning.

The first person to spot it gets a free pair of my socks.

Used.

Perfect for eBay carpet-bagging of celebrity gear.

I would love to pass this onto two of my favourite liars (Scott Free and iDifficult), but unfortunately they’ve been tagged already, and are currently helping police with their enquiries.

So for now, I’ll have to sit on this one.

If you are a fabulous liar and believe you’ve been overlooked, please accept my apologies. But take heart from the fact that you’ve got me fooled. Man, you’re good.

If you were looking away, you can uncover your eyes now.

Pip pip,

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010/2012

The Hum Of Forgetful Bees

The sky is blue and the grass is warm.

I've decided that today is not a day for dashing about.

It was supposed to be, don't get me wrong. There's a teetering pile of work to do at the office, lawns to mow, washing and ironing to do, supermarkets to visit, dinner to cook, and any number of other "important" chores that "really can't wait".

Except, I now realise, they can.

The sun filters beautifully through the trees, the birds sing, and I can hear bees humming their absent-minded tune in the nearby lavender. There's a gentle breeze, and I'm feeling wonderfully relaxed.

And my decision to pause here when I should be doing other things gives it all an added naughty luxuriance.

I smile. This must be that stopping to smell the roses thing that I've heard so much about?

I'm not very good at slowing down. I either do things or I don't. If I do, I do them 'til they done. And if I don't, I'm doing something else with a similar focus. Because there's always so much to do. It's hard to not be swept along by the current, but today I'm delighted to be lounging on the riverbank for a change.

I have a deep sigh and inhale the scents of the garden in bloom.

Moments pass like minutes, and minutes pass like days.

I reflect lazily that a short while ago, I was less relaxed.

The two-ton rhino sitting on my legs was causing me some discomfort.

But now? Why, now I can hardly feel my legs at all.

So, it's all good.

I wonder when King will get home?


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010