1...

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/Video.Thirteen, twenty-one including TV series.2) The last film I boughtLook, I can explain. No, really. See, I'd just finished watching Sportsnight after years of only knowing the fic, and was having a full Josh Charles renaissance (And his mouth? It really does do that thing, no, not that thing, although I really like to think he does that thing later.), and I'd already bought Dead Poet's Society, and I was at the DVD store, and there, pimping itself at me from the 'M' section was Threesome. So I bought it. And watched it. And a movie more deliriously, appallingly, jaw-droppingly, pretentiously bad I hope never to see again. Still, I laughed a lot.3) The last film I watchedHitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It was, um, okay. As someone who knows the radio and BBC tv series so well that when the theme played during the opening credits, I got a little choked up (and we're not going to mention the summer I memorised the first three chapters of the book, either, okay?), it didn't do it for me. Bits were amusing, but Arthur was not Arthur, and the Vogons were almost cute, for fuck's sake, and, yes, well. Just, no.The next film I'm going to see is Kingdom of Heaven, and I will be extremely disappointed if it isn't a hugely self-important historical melodrama with bad CGI castles in the background. These are the movies I live for. After Troy, Alexander and now KoH, I thought Hollywood might have been tapped out on improbable epics, so I was immensely cheered to read that some poor fool has just signed Matt Damon to play Marco Polo. 4) Five films I watch a lot that mean a lot to meEven though I have a yen for bad historical epics, I also rilly rilly like some good ones, such as Master & Commander, one of the few literary adaptations that I love as much as the source material, Dangerous Liasions, because the mindfucks, people, and the exquisite sleaze, and I still cry when Valmont gets skewered. LA Confidential, again for very, very nearly doing justice to the source material, and being a damned good movie in its own right, The Princess Bride, of course, because snarling 'Prepare to die!' under your breath at an annoying co-worker will always be deeply satisfying.5) Tag 5 people and have them put this in their journalBecause I am a big black holes that stop all chain letters, emails and memes in their tracks, there are no tags. Also, everyone else in the known universe, possibly even Arthur and a Vogon or three, has already done this.

So I've had my annual prat fall.

This year, instead of tripping up the steps onto a tram (momentarily distracted by a Watch Your Step sign I'd never noticed), falling over in the street (dodging an apparently slippery metal grating in favour of actually slippery concrete), or tripping while getting out of the shower (yeah, no excuse for that one), I fell off the chair I was standing on to try and open my bedroom window. I did manage to demonstrate impressive if delayed coordination by twisting myself around as I fell, neatly avoiding the armchair, the chest of drawers, and the bedpost. Instead I landed curled up possum fashion, eyes scrunched shut and limbs neatly tucked. My left arm is a bit wrenched, and I have some bruises, and my flatmate has a laughter induced hernia, but that's all.My bloody window is still stuck though.

So...

So, I'm pretty vain about my handwriting, not obnoxiously so, but I have nice handwriting, and many people have commented on it over the years. It's partly a product of growing up in the French education system, which is much stricter about these things than the Anglophone systems are, and partly of completing three quarters of a design degree in which a disproportionate amount of time was spent doing writing drills, but mostly because I enjoy it.So.The six people in my unit at work have, generally speaking, average to awful handwriting, which is pretty much standard these days, apart from one, whose writing looks like a second grader's first attempts at cursive. I didn't really think anything of it (beyond 'yikes', anyway) until I handed this woman a form to sign one day this week, and realised that her writing was that bad because she had these enormous fake gel overlays on her fingernails, which meant that she could barely hold a goddamn pen.And my split second revelation went like this: I would happily endure nails that were nothing more than mangled, bloody stumps, as long as my handwriting looked good. Apparently it's more important to me that some random stranger in Accounts who might one day come across an expense form I filled out think 'Huh, nice writing' to themselves, while I gross everyone out with my shredded finger tips, than that I come across as a borderline illiterate when I sign something.I also suspect that this is not a surprise to anyone who knows me.

The purple prose of an adolescent trapped in suburban hell in 1989

While digging through the accumulated boxes of childhood crap over the holidays, I came across the one and only poem I ever wrote without being under threat of failing English. (There was a stand off one year. I won. Heh.) In fact, I would not be in the least surprised to discover I never wrote it at all, but that instead it's something that just randomly stuck in my memory. The good news is that there is not one thing I could write this year that could be more embarrassing, and so, in the spirit of self motivation, I give you:Here we go again, sir.And the antelope said to the cat in tree,Oh, what of the wandering stars?Do they sigh as do weNew sights longing to seeAnd yearn for faraway Mars?Or are their cares more mundane,Their pursuits much more sane,To care less for impossible things?Are their eyes inward turnedAnd their souls boredom burned?

Nice knowin' ya, 2003

December 2002: The culmination of the six months in the worst job I've ever had is a nervous breakdown, complete with stress induced vomiting and panic attacks. Fun for the whole family. I walk out one afternoon and never go back, and I spend the next two months doing the filing at my last job but one, until they tell me they no longer have the budget to pay me. I'm so broke my parents are paying my rent for me. Tis the season to be not very jolly at all.February: I fetch up in the receptionist job of great boredom, which in turn becomes the PA job of great hilarity, as I end up mostly doing G the Communication Manager's job in my spare time. This is my one great stroke of luck for 2003, as, although the job itself (at least, the part that is covered by my job description) isn't very exciting, my boss is pretty much the greatest thing since sliced bread, and with the exception of G, everyone is lovely. G's terminal incomptence does have the added bonus of making me look shit-hot, which is a welcome ego boost after all that filing.June: Six months of reoccuring abdominal cramps, nausea and vomiting finally convince even me to go the doctor. Convincing the doctor that something is wrong is an added challenge, even after two days of foul tests, the results of which leave the gastric specialist flabbergasted. My regular doctor's comment on seeing the scan of my insides? 'Yuck.' "Urgent" surgery is scheduled for two months time, during which time I'm to just keep doing what I've been doing, which is not sleeping, not eating, and hoping I don't suddenly spike a massive infection, because, presumably, that'd be even 'yuckier'.July: I pick up my mobile to see 'HOME' flashing on the screen, which is a cue for instant panic when you live on your own. The panic is entirely justified when it proves to be from a lovely policeman seated at my kitchen table, who tells me someone threw a brick through my bedroom window, and could I please come home so I can tell them what was stolen? Gone were my laptop (*wail*), my tv, and my brand spanking new DVD player (*sob*). Also, finger print powder is a bitch to clean up, especially when it's mixed with shards of glass. And no, I don't have insurance.August: Surgery. Yay.September: After having been promised that my contract would be made permanent, my boss instead tells me that they've decided to downgrade my role, and that I'm not to apply for it because I would be bored brainless. I should instead spread my wings and fly, little bird, out into the big wide world. G, the moron, tells me what a great compliment it is that everyone thinks so much of me they've decided to take my job away, and give it someone not as good. She then inexplicably fails to do the right thing and hand in her resignation so I can have her job instead. To date, she has still failed to do this. How selfish can you get? My lovely boss finds shit load of project work for me, so I won't be rushed out the door. At the moment, I'm there till February.December: Job hunting fucking sucks. G comes back from her honeymoon to tell me that her husband refused a posting to Singapore. I spend the rest of the afternoon, and most of the following week, not stabbing her with a blunt pencil. In the seasonal spirit of charity and goodwill, I accidently overpay my phone bill by $500, so Telstra has a great Christmas, even if I don't. Also, a big fuck you to Channel 9, who show three eps of The O.C. before pulling it completely from all schedules without any explanation whatsoever.Next up, why 2004 willl be better, even if G doesn't fall under a bus.

See?

can</i> deal with stupid people.">I woke up this morning after one of those low-grade nightmares, the kind where you find yourself trapped somewhere you can't get out of no matter which turns you take, or what kind of arguments you make. Then, once I was in the shower and more or less awake, I realised that it wasn't a nightmare, and that I had actually spent the whole of yesterday arguing with one of the more colourless superannuation tax accountants about disposable plastic coffee cups. Oh, and those wooden paddle-pop tea stirrer thingies.If only it was acceptable to say, 'No, you daft cow, the company provides you with coffee mugs, glasses, teaspoons and every possible means of washing them. Just because you and your colleagues are too lazy or too grotty to do so is no reason for me to spend good money providing you with disposable mugs and stirrers. Now get out of my face,' the whole farce would have been over in minutes. But no. Being the company supply-nazi is so glam.

Today's lesson

Meditating--alright, procrastinating--on a particular crafty project for five years means that when you actually sit down to do it, the whole thing takes less than an hour from first hammer blow to final sanding.I wonder if the same holds true for writing?

I'm havin...

I'm having a sudden attack of I-love-my-life, which hasn't happened in the longest time. Reasons for this, in no particular order of importance:- I have washing-machineness again! About six weeks ago, I came home to a large empty space in the communal laundry where once had lived a washing machine. It wasn't actually mine, but was co-owned by my landlord, and my neighbour's landlord, so I wasn't out of pocket myself, but, god, laundromats are my personal hell. As was reinforced last Sunday morning when the skeezy and disgusting old man--the only other person in there--went across the street and brought back a whole roast chicken and chips. He then ripped half of it to pieces with his hands, before dismembering the rest of it with a large and filthy serrated knife he pulled from his bag. He didn't chew with his mouth closed, either. All before 10am. So it's a very sad thing you can't possibly be as happy about the new washing machine as I am, because, me? I am very happy.- My cat just purred so loudly he made himself sneeze. Ahem.- My accidental new job is working out well. My main boss S is a complete dag in the best possible way, and is involving me in everything. My other main boss J is also very nice, but is confounded at very idea of having a PA; he keeps asking 'But what do you want?' every time I walk into his office. Lunatic G is, well, a lunatic, and I'll be pleased when I don't have to babysit her as well as do my own job, but she does think I'm the bee's knees, so that's nice. Also, surprisingly, I'm doing a lot of editing and copy-writing, much more than I ever did at the Publishing Company of Pure Evil. T is still one of the coolest people ever, and I found out A is also Buffy & Angel fan, and the three of us have hugely involved, dialogue-quoting, arm-waving discussions about everything at least once a day. - It's a lovely evening with the first chill of autumn in the air, and I walked home past some of my favorite houses, and then down Brunswick Street, and watched all the freaks and weirdos and students and yuppies and artists and writerly types. I read all the new protest graffiti and posters, and I bought a beautiful green velvet scarf that I coveted all last winter, when I was too poor to afford it.- I have tomato soup and pesto toast for dinner, and I'm wearing new, cool jeans, and my oldest sweatshirt.- After disasterous taping week--forced to choose, I picked TWW over Buffy, only to get such bad reception that the tape is unwatchable, ditto with taping Angel the next night--I found out that I have friends who taped all three shows, and who, instead of just lending me the tapes, will invite me over for dinner before watching it all together. Friends rock.- The randomly generated default password for my email at work was Justin. I changed it to Lance, because JC was too short. This amuses me far too much.- Seriously, eleven entries? Who'd a thunk it. One day I might even master the art of the short and snappy post.

I'm not making this up, I swear

So, the hilarious finance company has offered me a three month contract, as PA to the two most senior general managers. This also means I'm no longer G's (the Communications Manager That Can't Communicate) personal crisis-fixer, which she wasn't too happy about. She still comes past every five minutes or so, of course, just for my 'input on this communication' [tr: is this email intelligible?], and trying to slip a few extra projects my way, which makes my actual boss stalk out of his office, point at me, and say 'Mine!' very firmly. It's so cute. To prove it's not only the staff that she pisses off, this was how she told me a conversation with a client (woman, 80+, runs a seniors community radio program that the company has sponsored for a number of years) went at a function last night:G: 'And she was clearly angling for more money, yeah, of course [rolls eyes], so I told her that we were already spending as much on old people as we were going to, and can you believe it, she got really cranky! I mean, what else was I supposed to call them?'Me: 'Goodness me. Some people.'Good grief.

Kate is a pret...

Kate is a pretty common name. So common, in fact, that when I'm introduced to someone new, they invariably say, 'Oh, you're the other Kate.' So now it's official.

1 - The night b...

1 - The night before you have to get up at 5.00am for a 7.00am flight, make sure you're actually asleep by 1.00am. Note that being in bed is not enough, actual sleep is required. Also, don't wake up every half hour to check that the alarm clock batteries haven't suddenly gone flat. 2 - When booking a taxi to the airport, remember to get the operator to ask the taxi driver to please come and knock on your door, not just sit on his arse honking the horn, because, as far as you know, no one else in the building needs to be awake at such an ungodly hour. 3 - When setting up unfamilliar AV equipment, if the sound doesn't work the first time, make sure you've plugged the speaker cable into the proper socket (this is the socket with a picture of a speaker right above it, not a picture of a microphone). 4 - When dismantling AV equipment, do not rip off the top half of the nail on your index finger while unscrewing the various plugs. If you really feel you must do this, make sure the GM who wants to engage you in an inane conversation about stationery is not in the room. That way you won't have to stand there, hand cupped so as not to drip blood on the floor, trying to think how best to say, 'Look, really, please bugger off, I'm bleeding here,' and desperately hoping he doesn't want to shake your hand. 5 - Try and make sure that all the deadline-critical projects that you left ticking along happily with various suppliers don't suddenly come to a grinding halt, resulting in any number of panicked phone calls. This is can be difficult to arrange, so it's probably best to just shoot the suppliers before you go. Except the wonderful Direct Mail lady, who was fucked over by one of your colleagues; shoot them instead. 6 - Do not become giddly euphoric at the idea of a whole free afternoon wandering around a strange city; this is a signal to the gods to unleash a torrential tropical downpour, so that you end up wet through and stuck in a shopping centre, grumpily wandering through Myer and the Body Shop. 7 - Do not congratulate yourself on carefully avoiding the slippery metal cover on the footpath, because as you do so your foot will skid on some slippery concrete, and you will tear off half the nail on your big toe (so that it matches your finger) and your knee will blow up like a soccer ball. It is however better to do this in Brisbane, where a kind & lovely lady will retrieve your sunglasses, ask if you're okay, and offer to call a taxi, all before you've finished swearing and counting how many working limbs you have left; if you do this in Melbourne, people just walk around you. 8 - When you finally arrive home, do not even think about doing the dishes or cleaning up; this will only result in a broken glass, a temper tantrum, and a freaked-out cat. Instead, finish the gin, have a hot bath, and follow this with peanut butter toast and Queer as Folk. This will make anything better.Today, I'm going to limp into the city to buy an alarm clock that doesn't need batteries, and some CDs. Then I will lie on the couch and moan a bit, with possibly some shouting if the cat jumps on my knee.

The adventure continues...

'ST, do you have many projects that you're on deadline to?' asks G.'Only the database, which you already know about, because you're my boss and I do what you tell me to,' replies ST gravely.'Oh, right, because there's another project, which if you'd like to take a look, and provide some input, and maybe some content because it would require that you...' continues G.ST waits patiently.'Because you know with the new company launches we're having--there are six of them--and they're very important that we project the right presentation, and can you do this please? If you comfortable with this.' G hands ST a single sheet of A4 paper, only half full of text, of which a surprising amount is literally '#*$#@!!' and 'blah blah'.'Er,' ST is stumped.'Those are my notes for the MD's launch speech. He'll be speaking to about 750 people, it's the most important PR event of the year. Can you do it?' asks G, unexpectedly coherent.'Um. You want me, whose entire knowledge of this company consists of seven smudged post-its and 300 badly scanned staff photos, and whose entire knowledge of finance is limited to what coins I can find down the back of the sofa, to write the MD's launch speech?' asks ST, suspecting some vital point is eluding her.'Yes.''Ah, right. Just checking. Cool.'ST, who occasionally has outbreaks of over-acheiving girly-swottiness, takes the speech home to work on, and a couple of days later presents it to G.'You know, this is really good, but I'm afraid that there will have to be some re-writing done, because the MD's a bit miffed that he hasn't had any input yet,' G comments in passing.'You mean, those, er, notes weren't based on a discussion you had with him? I just wrote a whole speech for someone I've never met, who hasn't even been asked what he wants to say?' ST tries hard to sound calm.'Yes,' says G, 'That's how I always do it.''...' says ST.However, all ends happily. The bits needing re-writing turns out to be the parts which ST had pointedly marked [expand], because they were the bits that needed to be filled in by someone who actually knew what they were talking about. She found someone eventually, and returned to her database to live happily ever after. Until...'ST, are you afraid of flying?' S pops his head around the door. S is G's boss, a smart guy who knows his shit.'No.' Nothing surprises ST anymore.'Good. G's got laryngitis, and her doctor says her head will explode if she gets on a plane, which means that you need to go Brisbane tomorrow to arrange the internal launch. It's easy. All you'll need to take is the laptop, the projector, the speaker, the display stand, and the banner. Also, don't forget the celebratory mouse pads, lollies, streamers, balloons and coffee mugs.''And you're sure you want me to do this?' Okay, some things still surprise ST.'Yep, you'll need to change G's flight times. Have fun. In fact, take tomorrow afternoon off, it'll all be over by lunchtime.''Cool.'Tune in tomorrow to see ST try and make friends with Brisbane, and see Brisbane kick her arse...

...

Once upon a time, there was a young lady, a perfectly ordinary young lady, sitting mournfully at home, consoling herself with the fact that even if she was suddenly unemployed, she now had a lot more time to read and write popslash.Then rings her friend T, desperately in need of a temporary receptionist for her finance company, to cover the regular receptionist's holiday. The young lady, reflecting that, after all, slash won't pay the rent, agrees. This is inspite of many cautionary tales, related to her by supacat, about the kind of perils in which such a receptionist might find herself (deep, mind-killing, head-pounding-on-keyboard boredom being one, and the financial adviser sense of humour being another). Thus is born (cue soaring music) SuperTemp.The time passes reasonably quickly for ST, even if the company has no centralised phone list for their 300+ staff, or list of position titles, or organisational chart, or anything more sophisticated that several old post-its stuck to the computer monitor, for her to refer to. It makes life interesting, especially for everyone else. Between phone calls, ST finds time (a lot of time) to surf the net, and be pissed of by the fact that some kind of net nanny program automatically blocks any interesting sites (and I wasn't even trying to look at slash, I swear).In time, T mentions to G (ST's nominal boss, who took four days to introduce herself) that ST might be able to find time to copy-edit the company newsletter.'Cool,' says ST.'Fuck,' thinks ST, looking at the newsletter. For it is suddenly, blindingly obvious, that G, the Communications Manager, can't communicate. At all.'Heh,' thinks ST, 'Good thing I'm an anal grammar-nazi.''Wow,' says G, 'This is really good.''Er, right,' say ST, 'Thank you.''Here, can you do this one, too?' asks G, 'And this one? And this one?'Friday, later that week...'So,' says G, 'You've been really great on reception. People have commented on how nice you are.''Thank you,' says ST, 'I've, er, enjoyed myself, too.''Actually,' says G, 'I was hoping that you would be able to give me your input on a project, and perhaps be in a position to take ownership of a task to communicate our company's existing staff members internally to each other.''I'm sorry?' says ST.'We have an internet library communicating our staff details internally between offices, and it's mostly wrong,' clarifies G.'You're asking me if I would be interested in staying on to update the staff database?' asks ST, 'Cool.''Great, see you Monday,' says G.To be continued...

Because I couldn't catch a band-wagon with a timetable and a large net...

The first sentence of my ten favorite books.June 17, 1972.All the President's Men Woodward & BernsteinI used to read this at the end of every semester all through high school and uni, because if I could follow the story, it proved that my brain hadn't been entirely fried.It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.Pride & Prejudice Jane AustenI read this to recuperate after All the President's Men.The bathers of Baden in summer were few and fat.Pawn in Frankinsence Dorothy DunnettThe fourth book in the Lymond series. The hero is the ultimate suavely arrogant, hyper-intelligent yet vulnerable bastard whom everyone, including his sister-in-law, a sultan or two, his arch-enemy, several courtesans, his sister, his best friend, and, naturally, the reader wants to fuck. Dunnett writes the most rewarding historical fiction I've read, and this particular book culminates in one of the best set-piece climaxes ever.To those who remembered him, it was typical that Nicholas should sail into Venice just as the latest news reached the Rialto, causing the ducat to fall below fifty groats and dip against the ecu.Scales of Gold Dorothy DunnettThe fourth book from the Niccolo series. Everything Dunnett was practising in Lymond is realised in Niccolo. If you have even a slight liking for the genre, go read them now. Shoo. Go on. You might miss an essay deadline or three - there are 15 books all up - but you won't ever regret it.The book was thick and black and covered with dust.Possession A S ByattEveryone I've ever recommended this book to has hated it. So, please, don't read it. You won't like it. Go read Dorothy Dunnett instead.It was just on two.Corfu Robert DessaixYou know when you're feeling unsettled about your place in the world, and you call your best friend, and have one of those snarky, comforting conversations that lasts for hours on end? This book is like that, only shorter, and more coherent. And a lot cheaper, especially if the friend in question happens to live in Japan.'Are you awake, Will?'The Grey King Susan CooperThe best book of the series; and eternal gratitude to myalexandria for finding DiR slash.Thundershowers hit just before midnight, drowning out the horn honks and noisemaker blare that usually signalled New Year's on the Strip, bringing 1950 to the West Hollywood Substation in a wave of hot squeals with meat wagon backup.The Big Nowhere James ElroyJust, ouch. Not as broad in scope as LA Confidential, but much bleaker, and slightly less macho, and all the better for it.I was just about to overtake Salvatore when I heard my sister scream.I'm not scared Niccolo AmmanitiMy new favorite book. The 'through the eyes of a child' style usually drives me right up the wall, but this book maintains an childishly unsentimental and amoral viewpoint superbly. A sharp, anxious story.The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village.The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Douglas AdamsWhen I first read this when I was ten, I laughed so hard I dropped the book, which knocked over my glass, which smashed on the floor. I also gave myself a cramp. I have better motor coordination now, but it still makes me grin like a loon. (Slartibartfast!)

This can only end badly

A airplane movie with Charlton Heston as a sleazy business man, Helen Reddy as a nun, and a little girl passenger on kidney dialysis? Late night TV scares me. And, fuck, that's George Costanza's father, looking exactly the same twenty five years ago as he does today, even down to the safari suit and bad dye job. Now Helen Reddy's singing. Good grief.

Apparently I'm three years old.

There is nothing more frustrating than being patronised by one of your best and oldest friends. From random stranngers and co-workers? Pfft. From O? I want to bite her ankle and kick her shin simultaneously. Physically possible, no, deeply satisfying, yes.

I've just submitted my Secret Santa fic, which certainly surprises me, if no one else. It also happens to be my first Nsync fic, in fact, it's my first fanfic ever. So to commemorate that first with another first by actually posting in my lj, here's a snippet that didn't make the finished story but that I just couldn't throw away. Guaranteed spoiler-free.***'I. Am. Magnifogorsk!''Magnifo-what?' Lance looked up from his laptop, eyebrows knit, to where Justin had bounded into the lounge room, holding a DVD aloft as if it was his first solo Grammy.'Dude, magnifogorsk! I'm starting a whole new slang thang here. JC says it's a town in Russia, and that he found it on a shower curtain, but you know, whatever, it's all magni-fo-gorrrrrsk!' Justin rolled the r triumphantly.'JC's learning Russian from a shower curtain? Why I am I not surprised?''Hey!' JC lodged a token protest.'Woohoo! He shoots, he scores - Lance, get your ass on over here, the Infant's got the new Attack of the Clones dvd!' Chris grabbed the case, and then tried to high-five Justin.'Fucker, that was my forehead! And I told you my contacts were good – Lance might the Man, but I told you, I am magn-''-ifogorsk,' chorused Chris, JC and Lance. 'And if you don't ease up on it,' Chris continued, 'I will personally be booking your sorry ass in as cargo for Lance to jettison when he does eventually get up there, right, Lance?''Fine by me.' He thumped down on the couch, as JC whipped his feet out from under him just in time. He snapped his fingers. 'Star Wars. Entertain me now, minions.''Just why did I let you in the door again?' Justin's voice drifted back from the kitchen.'You mean apart from the fact that's it's his house?' Chris muttered.'You gotta learn to suck up to the host, man, or he'll just boot you out, and - oh, shit, sorry, sorry!' Justin materialised in front of Lance just in time to see Lance's face tighten, his smile suddenly fixed. 'Here, have a beer, beer makes everything better. See? Come on, Lance, smile, please, for me?' He batted his eyelashes, and smiled winningly at Lance.'Justin, you moron. Stop traumatising the boy.' Chris swore under his breath as he fiddled with the DVD. 'For that, first you will watch the little known cult-classic of intergalactic porn _The Phantom Penis_, which chronicles in deeply disturbing biological detail the tragic yet incredibly, um, active, love affair of a Wookie and his Gungan.'Justin, a look of horrified fascination crawling across his face, was for once speechless.'No, there are things we all must face, young Skywalker. You two,' Chris waved a casual hand to where JC had pulled Lance back to lean against him, a protective arm round his shoulders, 'shut your eyes or something. I'll hit you with a pillow when we ready.''Whatever, man. ' Lance rolled his eyes. 'Jup, he's teasing you.' He pulled away a little and turned to look at JC. 'You're learning Russian? From a shower curtain?'JC beamed at him, wide and sunny. 'Well, it's more like geography, cause it's a map of the world, so you can study while you shower. But it meant that every time I had a shower, I knew exactly where you were. I missed you, you know.'Lance smiled, and concentrated very hard on not relaxing against JC, pressed warm and close up against his side.