Who talks in riddles, who talks in reasons?

Announcement #1. My friend flannelcat is intending to walk on hot coals for charity, which is pretty fucking awesome, and he would very much appreciate your support.

Announcement #2. I am seriously considering being a member of the Julola Militia for a day in the Cotswolds, on September 24th; would any of you be interested in joining me?

"Actors are required for the Personal Security in Emergencies course at the Fire Service College, Moreton-in-Marsh, which is in the picturesque Cotswold Hills on the edge of Shakespeare country. The simulation setting is the fictional coutry of Julola (which is rather west African, bears an uncanny resemblance to 90's Liberia and Sierra Leone). You will be playing mainly Militia for informal & formal checkpoints. Some actors may also be requested to play villagers, refugees or journalists.

We ideally need you to arrive the night before for briefings and to get to know the other actors. If you are keen but can't get there the night before this still may be of interest - so let me know anyway. For both courses preparation will start the next morning from approx 8am. For both the simulation will finish by 5pm, and then you can choose whether to stay for food and pub or bugger off for your usual saturday night entertainment. We provide accomodation for the friday night, food if you arrive before 6.15pm, and all meals on Saturday. We will also pay travel expenses from within the UK."

The event is run by the charity RedR. There is another simulation taking place on Saturday 1st October, for which actors are also required if you're interested, but as this is the date of bacchae and areia's leaving-the-country party I won't be able to make it.

This weekend I am going to Synthetic Culture and kmazzy's birthday party, BOTH OF WHICH ARE PIRATE THEMED. I anticipate a total sensory overload of men in leather trousers. Mmmmm - I mean, ARRRRR.

The Calling was grand, although FAR TOO HOT. The sweat was sliding down my legs and I was swigging icewater and pissing off the bar staff by asking for "just ice cubes" every ten minutes. I felt slightly guilty for flaking early but I've been drinking pretty much every night for the last two weeks, and tomorrow I need to post cheques and take ID into the renting agency and get stuck into painting if I want to stand a chance of getting this commission finished by the time I go to Sweden.

My heels were giving me blisters so I took my shoes off on Pembroke Street and walked home barefoot. And I realised I'll miss this. Miss being able to slip into college via the kitchen gate and B staircase, through the door I know is always open, stopping in the downstairs toilets there to splash water on my face. I hopped painfully across the gravel and onto the paddock. There were groups of people out, still, sitting on benches in the dark or in loose circles on the grass, the low murmur of their conversation and the occasional burst of laughter drifting through the darkness. The May Week marquee was still up and lit and empty, the grass was soft and cold under my sore feet, and I picked my way under the trees by feel. My skin and the damp, firm ground, feelings its pulse beat against mine: there's nothing supernatural or sublime about it, it's just this place, this life. I'd forgotten my keys but the french windows next door were open and our corridors link on the second floor. For all I never really bonded with many of the people here, however little time I've had for the hockey girls and rugby boys and drunk rowers and socialites, I'll miss knowing this college's secrets, its night-time stairwells and empty rooms, being able to cut across it barefoot on a summer night. It's pitch black outside and there isn't the slightest breeze.