Have gone so firkin agley that they turned out to be un-plans. Wuzgunnas, in fact.
I wuzgunna go and get myself a set of orthopaedic sandals so I didn't have my foot-sweat trying to eat my feet in my already orthopaedic trainers. BUT... the initial model I wanted was both suddenly too expensive [the price had seemingly gone up from $79.95 to $109.95] but also lacked the heel cushioning I desperately need in order to walk with relative ease. The only other model available was not in my size.
Story of my life. When I finally have the money for the things, they are no longer in stock. When the things are in stock, they're more than I can afford.
It's a rare thing indeed for me to find what I need/want when I can afford it.
And, more often than not, I have to make do with whatever I can get.
I would love to be able to have the kind of income where I can afford to get the things I want when I find them. Or even have things specially made just for me.
Ah, to dream.
In the meanwhile, I make do with whatever I can get and carry on. The plus side of this particular failure is that we're ahead by $80, because that was all I was going to damn well spend on these bloody things.
The second failure came when I checked out the singular home-brew shop in our area. I wuzgunna make my own sarsaparilla. Turns out that they don't sell kits for that. But I could plausibly get a ginger ale kit, a cider kit, or a lemonade kit.
Lemonade?
The fuck?
WHO THE FUCK BREWS LEMONADE?
My mind is sufficiently boggled, I tell you. I never knew that making your own sars was that degree of unpopular. Or that small beer was such a niche market.
Time to google that shit.
On the plus side, I have decided that my next book is going to be Beauties and the Beastly, which is sort of steampunk, sort of Jane Austen, and at least one Werewolf. Plus one lady who spends a portion of her time as a man and is 10000% more practical than your average example of Victorian-era high-class womanhood.
The decision got cemented on my walk, this morning. Internally debating what sort of tale should be next out of my brain and into a novel. And while I was walking, I came up with the following exchange.
"Please don't hold the sword like that, dear. You'll ruin the carpet."
"We're in a life and death situation, Vicky. Hang the fucking carpet."
And:
"Petulia, if you don't stop pretending to faint right now, I am going to leave you to be eaten."
You can tell I'm already planning to have fun with this. BUT I need to do some research of course. Getting my hands on some definitive books on the subject of Victorian etiquette. And possibly some era maps.
Failing that, I might have to make up some kind of resort island holiday, because the key element to even horror parody is that all reasonable means of escape are cut off.
I shall mull it over whilst I finish up on Adapting. Though having an island would be much more convenient for the purposes of the book.