Tea and Dragons

Where to start with this...

I am an unabashed CS Lewis fan. I know his problematic aspects, I acknowledge them, but he still wrote good stuff and his Chronicles of Narnia are part of the bedrock of my childhood, my imagination, and even my faith. I know them very, very well; when the reprints were issued in the 1990s, with the changed order, I was able to identify the changed scenes without having my older copies to compare. This is important below.

When The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe came out in 2005, the Walden Media film, I was pleasantly surprised. For the most part, it's an excellent adaptation. There are bits that rang false to me, but on the whole it works, and there are parts that work extremely well - the Stone Table scene is spot-on, for example.

And I approve of the opening scenes, which are not in the book at all. Kids outside of Britain are not likely to know what the Blitz was, or why the Pevensies were shipped off to the countryside. The special effects are spectacular. Aslan is entirely believable and it looks like they hired centaurs for the cast.

So, having seen that in the theater, I was anticipating Prince Caspian a good deal. In fact, I took my mother to see it, which took some doing since she doesn't often go to films (actually, I think that was the last time she went). She'd read the books years before and liked them, and I'd shown her the first film on DVD.

We settle in, the movie begins. About two-thirds of the way through, my mother turns to whisper to me. Where are those characters going?

And I had to reply I have no idea.

That's how bad that film was.

I've tried to block a lot of it out, but from what I can remember, the most egregious thing was that they made Caspian an adult and then tried to pair him with Susan.  It didn't come off, thankfully, but - !! 

Caspian is a child.  This is a plot point in the book!  It is underscored!  There was no reason to make him an adult! 

Then there's the whole thing with the White Witch.  >_< 

I mean, I get that the actor was probably under contract and they didn't want to waste her.  But raising her from the dead is mentioned as a possibility in the book and firmly squashed - they do not go on to raise her, and she certainly does not start sexually harassing Peter!  It was appalling and completely unnecessary.  And gross.  He's a teenager. 

They screwed with the plot so much that, as mentioned, I had no clue what was happening at one point, in a storyline I could have probably recited beat for beat from the book. 

Don't get me started on The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  The trailer alone had so much wrong with it - including the Witch again - that I didn't even consider going to see the film.  Not ever going to touch that one, dear heavens. 

Now, the thing about all this is that it has bugged me ever since.  An irritation.  My mind can't just shrug and move on; whenever the topic comes up, I want to rant about it.  And because I'm slow, it finally dawned on me. 

I'm angry.  I'm still angry. 

Not only were the second and third films a distortion of a beloved classic series - distorted for what?? - they were a betrayal of the promise of the first one.  I think that's what bothers me the most.  They did such a good job with TLTWATW, and then burned it all up in an effort to...make it more trendy?  Relatable somehow?  Here, movie for kids, let's make the hero an adult instead, and have him perv on a teenage girl who's actually technically his boss.  Let's bring back the villain from the first film and go all Freudian, again on a teenager.  Let's add World War II to the third book even though it was several years over by then, and have Edmund try to join up underage even though he would never be that stupid, and why on earth are we doing that since 98 percent of the book takes place in the Narnian world?  

It would have been so easy to stick to the story - which is a good one!  Lewis knew what he was doing.  Instead they went to a lot of effort to make it worse. 

It was a betrayal.  I'm still wondering why Douglas Gresham allowed it.  He seemed such a careful caretaker of Lewis' legacy. 

It was a slap in the face to fans, and my cheek still stings.   

When I was little, there was a store... 

No, back up a step.  When I was little, a new mall was built in our area.  It was higher-end than the one we usually went to, with luxury-brand stores and gleaming metal and fountains, and (briefly) a restaurant that introduced me to the deliciousness of garlic and butter and Parmesan cheese all together.  It had three floors, and while I'm not sure they ever managed to completely sell out the top floor, the bottom had two or three regular wings and one themed one. 

I can't remember what it was called, but it was styled to look vaguely like a fantasy European street, with a cobbled floor and a narrower width; a little twisty, with hanging signs outside the little shops. 

Only two of the stores there remain in my memory.  One was a silversmith's (or, at least, a jewelry store specializing in silver, though I think they may have had a designer on board).  The other was a toy store - small and independent. 

I loved the silversmith, and in fact eventually saved up my pennies to buy a locket there (and still have it).  But the toy store... 

I never had a lot of pocket money, at least compared to what I see kids spend these days.  I got an allowance, but it wasn't huge (I'm not being critical, that's just the way it was) and these were the days before I did a lot of babysitting.  So most of what that shop sold was more expensive than whatever I had in my pockets on a given day. 

But, oh, if I could go back... 

It was crammed full of color and delight.  It sold Sanrio goodies, and stuffed animals in the heyday of realistic-ish plushies, and hologram stickers, and, and, and.  I dreamed for years about owning the stuffed unicorn head mounted on the wall.  I couldn't tell you now most of what they sold, but I remember the layout of the place, and where the best things were. 

But it closed before I earned any appreciable money, and now even the mall itself is gone.  All the goodies, the gleaming lights, the expensive pretence that to an eight-year-old was just a fun made-up environment like an amusement park - there aren't even photos of that wing.  It's all just in my head. 

If I could go back for an hour, with the contemporary equivalent of my current disposable income...well.  I'd make the shop's day and my year. 

This is why I buy myself toys, on occasion.  Or plushies.  Or cheap-ass pencil cases with unicorns printed on them.  Because they make my heart smile, and younger-me would have yearned over them.  Older-me can satisfy that wanting, and enjoy the stickers, and fill the cheap pencil case with phone chargers or lip balm or whatever else fits. 

I still would love that mounted unicorn head, though. 

I am watching my way through Midsomer Murders, which is a hoot - I am not overly invested but it's interesting, and John Nettles is a shoo-in to play Aral Vorkosigan. 

I've got used to seeing all the actors I know from elsewhere, like half the cast of Waiting for God and Cabin Pressure and that one guy from Highlander.  Austen actors one after another, and at least two of them playing two separate characters in different episodes. 

But so far, the crown has been an episode guest-starring Mr. Bennet (1995 thank you), the Fifth Doctor, and the Borg Queen.  I mean, really.  XD 

Yesterday I saw my first drone in the wild, as it were.  Part of me was, naturally, suspicious, though it didn't seem to be focused on me.  Given the location and time it was almost certainly a private or hobby drone. 

I was, however, also surprised by the other emotion, which was the sort of feeling I get when I see a dog out and about with no obvious owner.  Who are you?  What are you doing out by yourself?  Who's looking after you? 

It was very interesting to note how my brain instantly personalized the thing, probably because it was moving like a living creature rather than a machine.  Like an insect, not a mammal or a bird, but still.  Which makes sense, since it was being controlled by a living being.  But the movement made me think of a dragonfly, or (later) a lightning bug, the same long hover and then swoop. 

I also saw, very much in passing, a Serious (TM) Bicyclist go by - fancy bike, Spandex clothing, helmet, gloves, awkward cycling shoes, sleek sunglasses.  And, sitting directly in front of the cyclist, a small white fluffy dog, also wearing eye protection.  I'm not sure if it was sharing the seat or sitting on something on the body of the bike, but there was a padded board fixed on the handlebars, so the dog could brace its front feet against them. 

They zipped past me and were gone, almost before I could register the dog and accoutrements, but they both looked like they were having a good time. 

When I was little, I had a couple of British books about guinea pigs - the Olga da Polga series, and Guinea-Pig Podge, with the wonderful illustrations.  Our gerbil, Alphonse, passed away when I was still quite small, and eventually I started pestering for a guinea pig.  

The trouble was that - at the time - they weren’t generally available where we lived.  This was decades before the rise of the mega pet store, and they simply weren’t sold locally.  I’m not sure they were sold in many places in the United States then, not as pets.  

My father worked for the Food and Drug Administration, on the drug side.  One evening he put me in the car and drove me out to a parking lot somewhere.  We met up with a man, who handed me a cardboard box.  In the box was an albino guinea pig.  The whole event resembled nothing so much as a drug deal.  

(Dad, at this late date, no longer remembers who or where.  Obviously she was a retired lab pig, but all other data has vanished into the past.)

I named her Gwenyth, for reasons I won’t explain.  Compared to the current standards of care for guinea pigs, we housed her atrociously - and solo - but honestly we didn’t know better.  All I had to go on was an old British book on guinea-pig care, which mostly presumed they would be kept in outdoor hutches.  There was no Internet.  

However, she didn’t seem to mind.  She was an excellent pig, and was fed very well at least - pellets and hay, vitamin C in her water, and heaps and heaps of vegetable and fruit scraps and dandelion leaves.  When the weather was mild she was occasionally taken out to graze on the lawn, under an overturned box to prevent dashes into the azalea bushes; the box would edge gradually across the grass, revealing a neatly shorn patch.  A rock could be placed on top to prevent movement, but then the inhabitant (we did this also with later pigs) would go back and trim the grass down to the ground.  

She was never what I would call a cuddler, but didn’t protest being held, and enjoyed the occasional waddle around the living room.  She and our second pig, Cinnamon, also knew precisely the sound of the fridge door opening, and would make their intolerable starvation known.  Shrilly.  

I think she lived about six years in our house, after an unknown period as a lab animal.  She came down with something and stopped eating, and my mother mixed up a slurry of ground pellets, milk, and something else, and force-fed her with a dropper until she recovered.  (There were no vets available that would treat a small animal, and even if there were, my parents would not have spent the money.)  The second time Gwenyth got sick, it didn’t work; but she’d had a pretty long life by then.  

Somewhere, I still have a photo of Gwenyth on a table on a spread-out newspaper, all blurred light and ruby eyes from the flash, with a little dish of revoltingly green slurry and a dropper, and my mother seated there...and our cat, seated in my mother’s lap, with her nose in the dish.  Rose had a strange passion for mushed-up alfalfa pellets, which was hilarious.  

There’s no point to this story.  Gwenyth just came to mind, and I like to remember her, her pink and white livery, her placidity, her food shrieks (wwwwhhhhhEEEEET!  wwwwhhhhhEEEEET! whheet whheet whheet WWHHHEEEEETTT!), the contented, industrious munch of a cavy with a pile of greenery to get through.  The crisp sound of lettuce, the scrush of apple bits, the harder crunch of carrots, the way one could feed a dandelion through the cage bars and watch it steadily vanish like a ticker tape in reverse.  That particular woody rodent smell.  The absolute softness of her ears.  Her tiny tender feet with their delicate little nails.  The way her fur slicked over her rump to showcase the absolute lack of tail.  The ridiculousness of a yawn and stretch.  

A small life whose entire being was focused on “what delicious thing will land in my cage today?”  

She was a good pig.  I remember her. 

I got sick this week.  

High fever, fatigue, chills, shortness of breath, loss of appetite.  Some kind of virus.  A lot, in fact, like the time I got COVID a couple of years ago.^ 

My OTC test popped negative.  But - it took two days to go positive the last time.  And I know the OTC tests aren’t always accurate with the newer strains anyway.  

So I thought I’d better get a PCR test.  Where to start?  Why, with my state’s testing centers, of course.  My wealthy, blue state.  

Found the page.  Link to the search is dead.  The phone number’s disconnected.  

Okayyyyy...on the county.  

County site says “call this number”.  Which is the CDC.  

CDC at least gives me a live person.  Why aren’t you asking your primary care physician? she says.  Well, for starters, because I don’t want to walk into a room full of people most likely not wearing masks and potentially give them what I’ve got, even though they’re idiots for not wearing masks in public and particularly at a doctor’s office?  

All right then, here’s a site where you can search for places offering the test.  

They’re all pharmacies and the like.  Apparently there are no testing sites left, at least in my area.  Oh well, one of them is my pharmacy.  Nice and convenient, even if it presents the same risk to others as the doctor’s office.  Not like I have a choice at this point.  

I go online and make the appointment.  I’m very clear that I want the PCR test, not the OTC one.  At least I can get an appointment later the same day.  

Arrive for appointment.  Breathless walking in from the very small parking lot, even with cane.  Took ibuprofen to break my (almost 104) fever because an hour and a half of shivering with chills is ridiculously tedious, so I’m now soggy with sweat.  Check in; have to wait about ten minutes but at least there’s an unoccupied corner.  

Medical professional takes me into the appointment room and opens up the test...which is the OTC version.  

No, I say, I wanted the PCR version.  

Oh, you have to make an appointment for that.  

I did make an appointment.  I said so when I checked in.  I specifically wanted the PCR version.  

We go around this circle a few times and get no forreder.  Finally I tell her I’ll take this test, in part because it apparently checks for a couple of varieties of ‘flu as well and I’ve already paid for it, but I want the PCR test.  

Test done, she sends me out to wait for a bit, then calls me up to the counter.  Spends about seven minutes on the computer (not her fault that I can barely stand at this point - standing is always harder than walking) and finally confesses that she can’t make me an appointment, there’s something wrong.  Here’s a corporate number I can call, they should be able to help.  

(This test comes up negative too, on all counts.)  

Next day: I call the number.  It’s one of those artificial person phone systems that’s designed to make it nearly impossible to reach an actual human, but eventually I do.  I explain the whole mess, she’s sympathetic but I’ve ended up in the wrong area, she’ll transfer me to the correct one.  

Which turns out, of course, to be where I’d originally gone in.  This time I get to a point that tells me the only way to make a testing appointment...is online, or in person at the pharmacy.  Not over the phone.  

Somehow I resist throwing my poor phone at the wall.  

The sites have failed me, the pharmacy has failed me.  I call my primary care doctor.  Sorry, they don’t do COVID tests.  

The only other thing I can think of is urgent care.  I call the one near me.  Yes, they do PCR tests.  I can even get a same-day appointment.  Of course, my insurance hates this brand of urgent care, so I’ll have a copay and then a stiff bill later, but what choice do I have?  

I manage to clean myself up a bit, and go.  Traffic’s appalling (about two miles out of my way due to mismarked detours), my blood sugar’s in my socks, and the online check-in (on my phone, whose stupid idea was that, typing on the phone is slow and miserable) is absurdly repetitive.  Certain information has to be entered at least three times and the choice of “have you been exposed to COVID-19” is limited to “Yes” or “No”, no option for “I have no fucking idea because people are stupid”.  

At least they don’t make me switch out of my Flo Mask, which I appreciate deeply.  

Finally, finally, a PCR test.  They tuck me in another room to wait for the results, and while the TV in there (why does it need a TV?) is playing “Zillow Gone Wild” (gag)* it is at least doing so at minimal volume (I do look for a remote but I can’t spot one).**  I can ignore it in favor of my phone, or drowsing.  

PCR test...is negative.  

I don’t need Paxlovid, I don’t need to worry about taking more brain damage from that wretched virus.  I don’t need to isolate at home for a week, trying to WFH with a truly terrible Internet connection (it took two minutes for an email to send this morning).  

I don’t need to worry about infecting my elderly, frail parents, or my immunocompromised friend, or my idiotic (affectionate) colleagues who don’t wear masks.  I mean, sure, I won’t go near the first three until I’m recovered, but.  But.  

However.  

It shouldn’t be this hard.  

It took me two days to get this test.  While dealing with the illness itself.  A little bit sicker, a slightly higher fever, and I wouldn’t have had the stamina to keep trying.  

I know.  The cruelty is the point.  

But still.  


^Fever dreams are wild.  I particularly liked the one with the bunnies. 

*The commercials were interesting, though.  Decent mix of ethnicities, and I kept seeing things like laundry detergent or ovens being advertised using men as well as women.  I stopped watching commercial TV years ago so maybe that’s standard now, but it wasn’t what I was expecting.  

**I really, really hate the modern trend of TVs that can only be used with a remote.  At least put on/off and volume buttons on the device itself!  And while we’re at it, any computer monitor that requires more than a blind button push to shut off is unnecessary.  One of mine at work requires three separate moves to power down. 

Last May I posted about seeing a domestic rabbit outside my apartment building.  I'd met the kid involved before - we'd had a conversation or two about cats.  She was one of those ferocious, fearless types, full of opinion and enthusiasm. 

I haven't seen her since as far as I know, but that doesn't mean much.  I tend to get home pretty late these days and it's possible that we simply haven't been in the same place at the same time.  It's also very possible that her family moved out; folks in this complex don't usually stay very long.  Months is the average. 

Last night I parked further down the lot than usual, and when I got out of the car one of the cats I feed was visible (she's not a feral, she has a family, she just likes hitting me up for extra supper).  Tigre was next to a bush right out front of the nearest building. 

And circling her with deliberate hops, in what looked very much like a taunt, was a pitch-black domestic rabbit. 

She was obviously intimidated, turning herself to keep facing the rabbit, but the bunny definitely had the upper paw.  As I watched in fascination, it stopped, moved a bit away, then came back and did it again. 

As I approached, the rabbit went into the bush and Tigre walked past me, with the air of a feline relieved to escape with at least some dignity left.  I stopped; the rabbit came out without haste, but when I came closer it went back in.  Not fast or scared, just...withdrawing. 

I had peanuts and cat treats, but absolutely nothing to tempt a bunny.  I had to walk away, marveling at the sheer confidence of the critter.  It was almost as large as Tigre - but still.  I got the feeling that the confrontation was not the cat's idea. 

Is it lost?  Abandoned?  A runaway?  How long has it been loose?  It's been a very warm winter, there's no reason a grazer couldn't manage since most of the grass around here doesn't even die off (though I have no idea what the consequences are when Maintenance does the weed-killer thing). 

I thought I spotted a rabbit under a car some weeks ago, but it was night and I couldn't be at all sure.  It seems much more likely now. 

I keep thinking I should do something...but I'm not quite sure what.  Cats I understand.  Rabbits are outside my experience.  I suppose that if I see it again, when I'm not rushing away, and I have something I can offer it, I can try to catch it.  And then take it to Animal Control, I guess - I have no idea how to find the little girl if she's still here, I don't even know her name. 

I'm not at all certain, though, that the rabbit isn't exactly where it wants to be. 

And I am baffled.  

Also peeved, but - baffled.  

The thief or thieves smashed the window on the front passenger side.  They were certainly looking for cash - they went through the main compartment in my dash and rifled through the armrest compartment (but totally missed the change and the wheel lock in the pseudo-ashtray).  They got a paper dollar and what was probably about $20 in half-dollar coins that I had kind of forgotten about.  

They also took the large plastic tub that was sitting on my passenger seat, which was full of an assortment of stuff.  And they may have taken a blanket as well, though the wind last night was noteworthy, so it may have just blown away.  

Unfortunately the tub, which contained mostly items that it will be easy to replace, included my Flo Mask.  That pisses me off.  I had to wear a very inadequate paper mask to work today because it was all I had, and while I have another on order to arrive tomorrow, it’s almost $90 to replace.  

Of course, replacing the window will cost almost $500, and I will have to pay out of pocket because I have the bare minimum insurance.  But I do have the money.  

They didn’t bother with my auto registration, for which I am thankful.  But there are two things that puzzle me greatly.  

One: they took a mostly-full Costco-sized box of sanitary wipes.  The hell?  

Two: they took the whole plastic tub; if they’d dumped it out in the car there would be a lot more paper napkins on the floor.  And yet, they must have gone through it at least in part, because they deliberately left something behind.  

Last week I was helping my mother sort through some antique and vintage tableware.  This included, for some reason, a couple of those commemorative collectible spoons, the kind that have decorated stems.  There were two that had buildings on them; when I flipped them over and found they were from our local mall, I knew I had to have them.  

They’re zero-value items.  But they were in the tub, mixed in with a ton of other stuff.  I found one on the seat and the other in the dashboard compartment.  Which means that the thief pulled them out and left them behind - and yet carried off a container of straws, a box of raw peanuts (I hope the thief doesn’t eat them - they’re meant for the crows), and a very nice octopus hat that was a gift from a friend.  Also tissues, napkins, receipts, hard candies, and a cheap plastic art supply caddy I was using as a storage bin.  

Why steal all that junk, and leave the spoons behind?  It’s weird.  

Side note: as I’ve said before, I feed the local ferals.  Two of the current ones have known me for years, and like to climb into my car when I get home and sit on me, or on the passenger seat, and get pets (or have an extensive bath).  Sometimes they’ll hop on the hood, and when I lower the driver’s side window they’ll come in that way.  

Judging from the line of delicate muddy pawprints on the passenger sill this morning, somebody let themselves in last night.  At least they were out of the wind! 

Rambling discourse ahead... 

Back in 1997 when I was spending a year dead for tax purposes in Bath for grad school* I spent a lot of time, naturally, looking for books to read.  I mean, I'd taken my most precious volumes with me, but there's only so much you can fit in two trunks and I'd read them all repeatedly. 

Unfortunately, the SF/F sections of the local library and the Waterstones were lacking to my eye, trained to U.S. suburban abundance.  The one used bookstore in town had one half-height shelf dedicated to the genre, and it was mostly Michael Moorcock.  I can't stand Elric.**  I got most of my used books from charity shops, of which there were several. 

Somehow I managed to pick up a copy of Annie Dalton's Out of the Ordinary, though I don't remember now where I got it.  I found it charming not only for its own, rather original story, which is sort of a lost stranger crossed with a portal fantasy, but also because the style reminded me of Margaret Mahy***, whose works I love. 

So I bought a copy of my own.  I've read it quite a few times in the intervening decades; it's still a favorite.  But I have the odd habit of forgetting the title, maybe because it doesn't seem to me to really fit the story (personal opinion), and I have no hope of remembering most authors' names anyway. 

Recently I wanted to re-read it, but my copy is currently inaccessible.  It took me a couple of attempts to find someone online who knew what the title was (shoutout to r/whatsthatbook, it took about five minutes), and then, since I have disposable income now, I figured I might as well just buy myself another copy.  I could give it away when I could get to my original one. 

Now, I need to note that this is a British book.  It was written by a British author and published in the U.K.  (It's also out of print and not digitized, which does not surprise me.)  I found a copy on Biblio.com, it arrived, I began reading with delight. 

Some of the words are different. 

I can't explain why my brain memorizes bits like this, but it does - though one of extra little reasons I love this book is because it introduced me to the word chuntering, specifically as regards guinea pig vocalizations.  But I haven't even finished my read and I've noticed that there are a number of words that have been replaced.  "Jumble" has been changed to "rummage" (as in sale).  Odd additions of the word "period" (as in classes).  There's a few others I can't bring to mind at the moment, but the one that finally tipped me off was "fries" instead of "chips". 

I looked at the front, and yep.  First U.S. printing. 

Now, this is just insulting.  Why the bloody blue blazes does a book, any book, need to have the Britishisms taken out of it?  Do the publishers really think a teenager - this is a Y.A. book - can't possibly understand the occasional British term?  That they'll toss it aside if "math" has an s on the end?  Not only that, it dilutes the flavor and culture of the book.  It's by a British author, about (mostly) British people, set in Britain (Yorkshire, I think).  Substituting in American words hurts the story.  If you don't think kids can handle a book from another culture, just stick with your own.****  Don't dilute it. 

And for pity's sake, what on earth do they do to books that use words from other languages?  I shudder to think. 

Now, since I've been bitten by this before, I have no clue whether Annie Dalton knows about the changes, approved of them, or made them herself.  For all I know it could have been her idea (though I take leave to doubt it). 

I'll finish the copy I have, and I'll enjoy it!  It's still as charming and interesting as it was when I first read it, even if my perspective is a quarter-century older. 

But I don't think I'll feel it right to give the U.S. copy away (and I'm not giving up my original!).  Maybe to an adult. 

Maybe. 


*It turned out to be eight months, for unrelated reasons.
**All he does is WHINE. 
***Oddly enough, I read a couple of other books by Dalton, and they didn't have the same Mahy-like touches. 
****Bad idea, I do not endorse it.