MONDAY

It has been over a year since Godfrey left home with That Unspeakable Person, and yet it feels as though he left yesterday saying he needed to interview a witness. Hah! MY ANGER CAN ONLY BE ADEQUATELY EXPRESSED THROUGH WRITING IN BLOCK LETTERS. MY PAIN CAN ONLY BE RELATED THROUGH SONG LYRICS FULL OF CURSING WHICH WILL ONLY BE ACCEPTABLE IN ANOTHER GODDAMN CENTURY AND SOME REALLY ANGRY PIANO IN SIX/EIGHT TIME.

TUESDAY

Woke up from the best night's sleep I've had in ages with the suggestion “Go to London; go to Baker Street” from my dreams. It all became clear upon the arrival of the evening post – Sherlock Holmes is alive! My God! The Universe, in all its wisdom, is telling me to go to him, and I shall obey. Perhaps there is hope for love after all! Not sure what to pack – Hell! I'll pack everything! The game's afoot!

WEDNESDAY

Awoke with The Voice ringing in my ears again; I'm not sure why The Voice which calls me to Mr. Holmes is that of an Englishwoman. Perhaps it is the same voice which called Jane Eyre back to Mr. Rochester.

London still gray as ever, gray as a certain man's eyes in candlelight but without the pale fire of intelligence and the dark passion underneath the surface. As I sold Briony Lodge when I married (biggest mistake OF MY LIFE) I took a room at Durrant's. Dinner was surprisingly not terrible.

THURSDAY

The Voice – that sweet, angelic voice – has continued to urge me to go to Baker Street. Spent three hours dressing, fixing hair, etc. for stroll and was just about to leave hotel when agent comes in with Oscar's latest script. Blast it, why did I tell my housekeeper where I was staying? But as that rat bastard my estranged husband drained the accounts, Mr. Mycroft doesn't pay nearly enough to maintain a respectable household, and I'm running out of tacky jewelry to pawn (Rudi had no taste, poor dear) I suppose I must earn money somehow. And everyone says Oscar always brings such handsome young gentlemen with him to dress-rehearsal.

FRIDAY

Today's excursion to Baker Street went relatively smoothly until I saw what must have been a circus of humanity outside Mr. Holmes's flat. Half the debutantes in London have evidently decided to make a go for Britain's most legendary bachelor, along with a flock of green-carnationed young men, some lovesick puppies in Scotland Yard uniforms (suddenly I understand why the Whitechapel murders went unsolved), and the usual complement of purse-snatchers among them. Realized that I could not be noticed in such a crowd even with new hat (two stuffed doves and a ring of orchids. V. fashionable.) and decided to retreat until evening.

I wonder if my gentleman's evening-dress still fits?

SATURDAY

Most. Momentous. Night. EVER.

My plan to woo Mr. Holmes en travestie failed, and I'm glad of it. Upon entering Baker Street I was doused in claret by Dr. Watson and his moustache; Mr. Holmes glanced at me but then continued glaring at Dr. Watson. As I left Baker Street I was apprehended by a rather short Yardsman for “public intoxication” and hauled off to gaol, which I was NOT looking forward to (if they'd discovered my sex they'd have locked me up as a common prostitute. I have been many things, but I have NEVER been common.) I was only saved by Mr. Mycroft, who passed by the gaol just as my Inspector was ready to haul me in; he told the Inspector that Whitehall wanted me for questioning.

By the time I arrived at his apartment I had told him everything – Geoffrey and That Unspeakable Person, my trips to Baker Street, Dr. Watson's moustache. I went through half of the packet of handkerchiefs he'd purchased that night. Mr. Mycroft was very understanding, and I was half-tempted to bury my sorrows in his flesh, but he did not ask and I didn't want to ask. He did, however, lend me the use of his guest bedroom for the night, and as I was in no condition to travel, I accepted.

It was after I'd undressed and poured myself a glass of water from the carafe that a woman's shape appeared in the curtain. “Mrs. Norton?” the Angelic Voice called from the shape. “My name is Mary Watson. I believe we are in similar predicaments.”

So began the most intense conversation I've ever had. Mrs. Watson revealed that she had schemed to drive her husband and Mr. Holmes apart but was now unsure of the wisdom of that scheme -- “Mrs. Norton—Irene--when I began to consider it anew I found the idea of relations between my John and Mr. Holmes to be—well--”

“Stimulating?” I asked, and blushed at my own words.

“Quite.” Her voice was suddenly shy.

“I'd never considered Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson in that light before, but I've read—literature about two men in intimate relations, and I've also found it quite stimulating,” I admitted.

We talked through the night, and when we had nothing else to say our lips found different occupations.. I'd never considered myself at all Sapphic before, but Mrs. Watson – Mary – was so beautiful I couldn't help myself. We parted only after she promised to visit me the night after next, and I fell asleep with her voice in my ears.

Woke up to find I was showered in rose petals, which disturbed me a little when I considered the possibility that Mr. Mycroft may have entered my room, but then I felt my sweet Mary's hand across my brow and knew they were from her. I was so happy I kissed Mr. Mycroft good-bye this morning; I'm afraid I may have left him with the wrong impression. Still, I don't have to see him again until after my trip from Prague next month.

Only twenty-five hours until I see my Mary again!

SUNDAY

The afternoon is lamentably long, and I burn with desire for my Mary. “Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night” - I finally understand Juliet's words. And yet – perhaps the delay will make our joining the more sweet.

Only one more hour!

THE HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL DIARY OF C. MYCROFT HOLMES

WARNING: Reading this diary without the proper clearances is a crime under the Official Secrets Act of 1889 and may be punishable by imprisonment for up to five years at hard labour and loss of all Civil Service appointments. Disclosing the contents of this diary to any unauthorised person may be punished as High Treason and the offender may be subject to death by hanging.

MONDAY: Delightful meeting with Clottie this afternoon. God bless the DC's secret annex! Cook's duck is superb; I detect a hint of nutmeg. V. tasty.

TUESDAY: Little brother FINALLY back in town; hopefully he'll take over his rent payments. Baker Street rent + purchases for Clottie (jewelry, opera tickets, government bonds, small arms) = have not been able to significantly update wardrobe since '92, especially since landlady keeps raising price due to “heightened demand”.

S. has brought back most interesting intelligence from India, including some manuscripts of zero military or political significance but which will be most useful in extracting information from contacts. If S. has any sense he'll use that information in getting his Doctor to forgive him, but S never did have any sense in romantic/carnal matters. (See: Trevor, V.)

WEDNESDAY: Tried S's Indian data on Clottie with much success. Clottie now studying manuscripts for use on husband and other Embassy staff. Attempts to stifle jealousy with sticky toffee pudding unsuccessful at present.

THURSDAY: That damn Queensbury's ruckus about sodomy threatens to take down half our Paris division. Hope Wilde knows what he's doing. Will check with Counsel to see about legality of incapacitating a member of the H. of L. for national security purposes.

C not amused; will order sham marriages for all Green Carnation operatives if Queensbury continues. Hope this appeasement of virulent anti-Uranians does not set precedent for British intelligence.

Dinner: raw oysters, salade verte (am trying banting. Again.)

FRIDAY:
Started day with eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, coffee – all permitted under regime – but Newmark in Accounts brought croissants from the little French bakery on Regent Street. I surrendered. Damn my French heritage!

On my way from Harrod's tonight (I picked up a gentleman's waist-cincher and some new handkerchiefs) I passed by the gaol and encountered Adler soaked in claret and in custody of Inspector Lestrade. Told Lestrade I needed to interview this “gentleman” for national security purposes and brought Adler back to my rooms, where she admitted that she'd been mooning over my brother. Still not sure whether or not S. ever sported with her; S. may be queer as a three-pound note but he's neither dead nor blind. (She hasn't said a thing and I daren't ask either of them.)

I wonder if I should offer self as substitute for Sherlock:

PROS:
Not homosexual
Taller; broader shoulders
Far more elegant apartment
Actually remembers mealtimes and does not allow companion to starve through inattention

CONS:
Not musical (she is opera singer so probably important consideration)
Rather stouter and less flexible than Sherlock (however, I compensate for this through the artful arrangement of pillows)
Feats of intellect not memorialized by sycophantic lovesick “deeply admiring” chronicler
Did not defeat Napoleon of crime through manly display of fisticuffs

There is insufficient data for me to decide.

SATURDAY: Adler stayed the night... in my guest bedroom (I decided not to proposition her, and she unfortunately declined to proposition me). Damn good conversationalist, though, and her parting kiss was rather promising. Perhaps when she gets back from Prague.... At any rate, Clottie coming to tea this afternoon.

Gentleman's waist-cincher has turned out to be impractical under clothing but lovely addition to bedroom sport.

SUNDAY: Received telegram from S informing me all is well with him and his Doctor. Clottie is in my bed with a tray of exotic fruit and the Hindustani manuscripts, so will stop this writing nonsense at once.

It didn't suck as much as I feared it would. Yay!

Tonight's episode of House. The scene in the surgical theater. Two hands, one large and wrapped in latex; the other tiny and covered in amniotic fluid. I want a screen shot.

I suddenly realized that House has pretty much a one-to-one character mapping onto the Sherlock Holmes stories:

House = Holmes. Naturally, House's cane equals Holmes's deerstalker; his bouncy ball equals the pipe, and House's Vicodin equals Holmes's seven-percent solution of cocaine. This leads to Wilson = Watson, and Chase, Cameron, and Foreman (whom Television Without Pity calls the "Cottages"--little houses, see) are the Baker Street Irregulars. And the asshole police officer with a vendetta against House? Totally Moriarty.

But who is Cuddy? Holmes doesn't really have a boss, and I don't recall him harassing Lestrade's courtships or copping a feel (in canon, at least). The Irene Adler spot is already taken by Sela Ward's season two character (House's ex-paramour and the hospital's attorney). The closest match I can come up with is...

Mycroft. He runs the British government; Cuddy runs PPTH. Holmes asks Mycroft for advice and government information; House asks Cuddy for endocrinial information and permission to do expensive tests. Granted, Cuddy isn't as smart or as fat as Mycroft, and House doesn't really have any relatives, as far as we know.

The day after I get a job, and I'm sick. Yesterday I thought it was allergies from dusting, but I took Benedryl tonight and I still feel like shit.

Okay, so it probably wouldn't win a Mammalia-wide beauty contest. And yes, it looks like a reject from Labyrinth. But is the aye-aye, as Slate
asserts, truly too ugly for people to care about? I mean, it's got really big ears! That's cute, right? And the nice round eyes! And the inquisitive-yet-endearing facial expression.

Okay, fine. Maybe most people are shallow. So maybe they could put "Ugly Betty"-style glasses on an aye-aye and make T-shirts. Or maybe they could market aye-aye conservation efforts to horror and science-fiction conventions.

The job hunt has not been going well so far. Four interviews and counting... and three rejections, one still unknown. I'm out in Lombard, with only my grandmother for company during the day; I've gained about five pounds (I'm not sure of the exact figure).

So all of that drove me to register for Second Life, and I was all set up to start a new life on it when... it crashed. And the next time I started it, it crashed again.

And then I realized--Wait a moment, I have a life outside of this.

So here I am, back again. I'm sorry I've been so distant.

Dear Santa,

Aside from a steady full-time job with benefits, a nice pad, and some other personal stuff, I would like the following speech to be read by President George W. Bush at a televised press conference on January 22, 2007:


My Fellow Americans,

Over the past six years, I have failed you. I have used your patriotism and your trust in me to override the Constitutional rights of American citizens and visitors to this country. I have willfully and deliberately misled the American public into supporting a war which they thought was for the purpose of deposing a dangerous leader and preventing the spread of weapons of mass destruction. Instead, the goals of this war were these: To enrich the pocketbooks of defense contractors and fossil fuel companies, to avenge a decade-old assassination attempt against my father, and to show my father that I could do what he was too timid to do during the Persian Gulf War.

Meanwhile, while I and my administration were busy destabilizing the Middle East, we ignored problems here at home until they exploded in our faces. We ignored the need for improvements in the New Orleans levee system, and were too slow when responding to their breech after Hurricane Katrina. We ignored the rising budget deficits while creating tax breaks for Americans earning more than 100,000 dollars a year. We used government websites to spread misinformation about contraception, HIV/AIDS prevention, and climate change.

I would like to announce that I have asked my vice-president, Dick Cheney, to resign his office effective midnight tonight. In his stead, I have appointed a man who is familiar to the office--former vice president Al Gore. I ask the Congress to ratify his appointment immediately.

After Mr. Gore assumes the vice-presidency, I will resign the office of president of the United States. I leave it to the man who was actually elected six years and three months ago. I am not equipped to handle the challenges that my administration has helped to create. I believe the next president of the United States will be.


Love,

Maureen

P.S. I would also like the new Amy Sedaris book and the Eugenia Kim book on hatmaking.

I've been working at The Company since July with the expectation that my position would end at the end of the year; hence I've been engaged in The Job Search... until last Tuesday, when I received an email from one of my supervisors indicating that I could be hired on for a more permanent position. So I was relieved, because job hunting sucks.

Then yesterday I got another email saying "Oops--turns out there aren't positions available. Never mind."

And finally: Today at work another supervisor indicated that clean-up for the project I'm working on could extend through January--but they're not sure.

In conclusion: I need a sublet for January. I'm willing to go the entire quarter if the rent doesn't eat up my savings too badly (besides, jobhunting is certainly easier in HP than in Siberia the extended family's residences in the Western Suburbs).

What ever happened to rooming at the Y, anyway?