assessment

It's the seventh day of February. Where am I?

1. p. 140 of Duffy (out of 593). I need to read faster, 'cause I've got a hell of a lot more reading to do and then a fair amount of writing, and three weeks left to do it in. No matter how lame this damn thing is on March 1, it's going to the godlike committee member, but I want it to be as unlame as possible.

2. finished w. editing Ch. 10 of The Project. Mesmerized by Ch. 11 as the mongoose is NOT mesmerized by the snake (*heart*Rikki-Tikki-Tavi*heart*), because it has some problems in it that I just flat out do not want to deal with. Tho' ineffective, avoidance remains a popular coping strategy among our respondents.

3. toying with vague ideas for a couple of short stories. I've been trying to write a werewolf story for seriously the last three years; may have finally reached an insight that I can build an engine around. Maybe.

4. presented with another nugget of pre-Raph trivia whilst searching for the correct spelling of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi: Rudyard Kipling's mother Alice Macdonald was the sister-in-law of Edward Burne-Jones. I wonder if she was present for the interment of the tube of mummy.

5. Mulling over ideas for next analytical collaboration with heres_luck.

The wombat, Kipling, and the tube of mummy

A little historical research (a very little) reveals that the Incident took place in 1881, the year before Kipling returned to India. He was 16.

No grubby small boy. Sorry, papersky.

On the other hand, this does mean that the proper model for Young Kipling is Stalky & Co.: Stalky, M'Turk, and Beetle. Which is handy, as that's the only Kipling book I actually own and the only one with which I have more than a passing familiarity. (I don't know why that is, so don't even bother asking.) And a Stalky-esque Kipling could be rather fun to write, aside from being the sort of Eris-like creature who might be prone to smuggling Rossetti's wombat into Burne-Jones's garden.

The historical wombat appears to have belonged to an earlier era, since Rossetti Lamenting the Death of his Wombat is dated 1869. However, I am perfectly willing to assume that a man who would acquire a second wombat (sadly expiring almost immediately upon arrival) would not balk at going to the lengths of acquiring a third. And who can wonder that the Third Wombat is never mentioned, after its disgraceful and unchristian behavior in the garden of Edward Burne-Jones?

[ETA: and we just squeak in under the wire: Dante Gabriel Rossetti died in 1882, at the age of 56. Clearly this story was Meant To Be.]