supplicium post mortem

She just plays one on tv. LOL.

A couple of people have asked recently, whether I’m of British extraction, and while that’s almost as flattering as having people think I’m a boy, I won’t fib.

I was born & raised in the mid-western USA. Thankfully, I don’t talk like that any more. Also thankfully, I don’t talk in a Gotham accent. And unless I’m in Englandland trying to blend in somewhere, I don’t talk in any of their accents either.

I was married to an Englishman. Certainly that had a big impact on my imagination and ideolect, but less than you might think. The schoolboys, for instance, already existed when I met him.

I do write in that world in my regular life, so I guess it has developed over time. I don’t know if it’s got much to do with skill, though. These people just appear, and I listen to them. So thanks, people, for appearing.

I miss his voice, by the way. His accent had softened drastically since moving here, but – God – I would give anything to hear him talk to me now, to hear him whisper the things he used to whisper in the dark. Or in the light. I miss his expressions, and the way he was always making up new ones. I miss his often manic playing with words. I miss the language jokes we had. I miss all the jokes. I miss the ways he said Casey: “Case-ey.” “Casey!” “cdm-cdm-cdm.” I miss the way he said my real name. I miss how he called me Sweetheart. How, when I said, “It’s me,” he said, “Hello, me.” I miss his whistling. I miss his snoring. I miss what he’d say when he came through the door. I miss what he said in our first phone call: “You need a lot of looking after…”