I don't know why I find that at all comment-worthy, what with having lived in England my entire life. After twenty five years, one might assume that I would be used to the idiosyncrasies of English January, but some how here I am, shivering over my phone and coke.
Sidenote: My phone has the blogger app. Win.
For Christmas, Morgan signed me up for an online writing course. In the third module, it talks about how weather can be used in stories to set the empathic mood for a scene. Notice how when the two lovers break up in a chick-flick, it's always raining. That's called 'pathetic fallacy', a term I never quite understood until studying etymology in my past time. Yes, these are the things I do for fun. Pathetic, as in 'pathos'.
It also goes as far as to mention a syndrome that apparently we English suffer from due to, supposedly, lack of sunlight. Considering that when I was asked what the British weather was like, I told the questioner that the rainy season started circa 400 AD and has continued ever since, I can believe it. Perhaps I'm just a 'Soft Southerner', but I am about to move all the way north to Lancashire, so hey, at least I'm doing something about it.
I'm actually really excited about it all. I mean, sure, I'm going to seriously miss all my friends, but we've already got a place to live lined up, and job prospects and I recently stumbled across a gaming group when they randomly commented on one of my recent tweets. That said, it is an exciting new adventure; it's new inspiration and scenery for my writing (what better place to write traditional fantasy than the middle of nowhere!), and whole new experiences for me.
As Morgan is saying to her mother on the phone now, right next to me, "instead of a tiny, squished up one-bed flat, we're getting a three-bed house with a garden! Where else were we going to have all those barbecues??" My thoughts exactly. Well, I'm not sure about the barbecues - I'm an adequate cook, but the prospect of giving a whole chunk of people food poisoning is quite disconcerting. Especially when one of those is her mother; I'm terrified enough of Mrs. Morgan without having hospitalised her.
I am excited. I am terrified. This is a scary new beginning for me, full of hope, wonder and mystery. I find myself anxious to go, but also saddened at the prospect of leaving. It's a strange bubbling cauldron of mixed emotion, and I just hope that when I chug down the contents in one, I can hold it all down and make something of it properly.
Anyways, I'm pretty sure my song is up next ('Poison', Alice Cooper) and my fingers are going numb, so I'm headed inside.
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