Wednesday, December 8, 2010

'They say aslan is on the move ...'

- The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, chapter 7

Despite the facts that the hours between me and my departure tomorrow evening are diminishing rapidly, and that my things to do list is growing ever smaller (oxymoron?), my multifarious concerns are not, to my chagrin, in commensurate decline. 

 Moving house via envirobags.

Will I get on the flight with Dad's staff travel? Will they let me into the country without having six thousand bucks in my account? Will Tilly let me buy a DSLR when she gets to England? And most importantly, are the British Isles about to fall under the icy reign of some kind of wicked polar princess, some inclement enchantress, determined to hold them forever in her glacial grasp!?

A wise Englishwoman, Gilly, just bespake the below prophecy unto me:

And I'm convinced the events it foretells can only be the result of some dark arctic mistress gathering power on a Narnian scale.

 [pics from and]

Whatever it is, it'd better not ruin our Christmas. All we can hope for is a thinly veiled Jesus figure (like a messianic cat) to free us from the would-be snowed-in confines of the Piccadilly Backpackers Hostel!

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