So, Gentle Reader, I have a bit of a problem. And this is it: I have a purposeful walk, particularly when I’m wearing stilettos or boots (which is most of the time). This has had a most unfortunate and unintended consequence in my life. People always think I know where I am going, and by default, that I will know where they are going. This means that despite never being caught dead in a red polo shirt and kakis customers are always asking me where to find things at Target. Or Best Buy. Or, god forbid, Frys. Or, I’ll be walking along, minding my own business and some car will pull up along side me, and enquire timidly as to where Middleplum Avenue is, or the local fishing Tackle shop. To which I will gave them a very blank look and have to explain that I, in fact, have no idea what street we are currently on. This is because I have the sense of direction of a baldy educated eggplant. No really, it’s bad. Friends will send me off to the bathroom in restaurants with a wish and a prayer for there is the distinct possibility I may never find my way back to the table. Then they have to send out a search party.
I blame my mother. Oh, not for the missing sense of direction, although I might have gotten it from her, but for the purposeful walk. You see, she walks fast. Not quickly. Not peppy. But practically Olympic-racing-speed fast. There’s an easy explanation for this behavior: she’s British. My earliest memories as a young toddler are of the backs of her legs as I trailed faithfully behind her. Always behind her. For the rest of my life I was destined to be trailing behind her. I’m four inches taller than she, and she still out-strides me. And she walks hard. None of that “step lightly as dew upon a leaf” bullcrappy for my mother. Oh no. You can always hear her wherever she walks in a house. Rattles the pictures on the walls if there’s a hard wood floor, does the ol’ Mum. When my Dad is angry at me he says, “You walk just like your mother.” (I’m always trailing behind him too, because he’s six foot four and moves like an R. Crumb character.)
So as a wee thing, I developed a definitive stride as a defensive mechanism, and no sense of direction because I could never see where I was going.
All I’m saying is who knew a walk could get a girl into so much trouble?
Gail’s Daily Dose (All steampunk in honor of the upcoming Nova Albion Steampunk Exhibition)
Your Infusion of Cute:
Your Tisane of Smart:
The BBC on steampunk.
Your Writerly Tinctures:
Some baby reviews and recommendations of steampunk novels from the Mad Hatters.
Quote of the Day:
“I take the view, and always have, that if you cannot say what you are going to say in twenty minutes you ought to go away and write a book about it.”
~ Lord Brabazon