JC, who probably didn't exist, had 12 disciples. Actually, it seems their existence is a bit more historically provable, so, by extension, we can say that the first person to have a really shitty Easter probably did. Whatever. My point is this: JC apparently had a disciple whom he loved above the others. Ol' Dan Brown (inspired by Michael Baigent, who I believe may be a Kiwi) thought that this disciple was Mary Magdalene, a gorgeous red-head.
Now, I have no disciples. I don't wnat any, either. The responsibility! Try keeping all that mystical BS straight, week after week. But I do have a freiend what I love. Actually, I have many freinds whom I love, and I rejoice in all of them. But there is one I rejoice in more than most (and she has,occasionally, been a gorgeous redhead..), and right now more than ever: for she has told me that she is, gasp, in love.
I cannot explain to you how happy this has made me.
And to cap the news off, one of our extraordinary selection of fabulous nieces told us (15 minutes before we found out about the glorious news above) that she had just gotten engaged to the marvellous George.
I'm a happy man.
READING: Still on the Cornwell book,and a ripper it is. I'd like to say I'm taking my time reading it, but I'm not: I've simply been hugely busy, and not been able to devote time to reading.
LISTENING TO: Marianne Faithfull, "Salvation". This woman simply curdles my heart.
TODAY'S WORD: Love. It's in the air.
It was his aim to never do so, and Arthur always hit the target he aimed at.
He worked the bolt of his rifle, and took guard again. He settled back into his zone of pure concentration, and perfect anticipation, and wasn't surprised when he found himself rolling down the steps, his rifle held high, away from his tumbling body. The hammer-blow of the sniper's bullet onto his sheet of steel plate rang in his ears, and he had instinctively rolled away, toward shelter. A storm of machine-gun fire rattled into the shattered church spire, a hail of hot metal slamming into the stone walls, ricocheting madly about. Arthur checked his rifle and lunged further down the stairs. A shard of stone had gouged a piece of meat out of his forehead, and he held his handkerchief to the wound, and laughed.
“Go on, you buggers!” he cried. “Go on! Try an' kill me!”
And try they did. What was left of the church shook and shuddered as a 4.7 inch shell exploded twenty yards away, and a second, just a moment later, thundered into the church's courtyard. Arthur leapt from cover, scampering over the the still-smoking crater of the first artillery round. A third round now fell into the tower itself, which flew apart violently, scarlet flame amongst the dirty black smoke. “Christ!” said Arthur. He felt, rather than heard, a storm of machine-gun fire as it swept across the lip of the crater he lay in. He counted up to five, and the storm of bullets swept back.