The minute my back was turned…
(click to watch)
The minute my back was turned…
(click to watch)
I will not lie. I wish to be very far away from that sinister duck and that infinitely creepy pineapple. There are several cases of circus toys on the other side of the room, my love. Let us go over there. What could possibly go wrong in a circus?
See? The carousel is colorful and charming, the lion is regal, and it looks like some homemade ice cream might be on offer.
And look! Here is one of the animal wagons, skillfully driven by a clever fellow without the use of reins!
Although–Watch out, Sigyn! It looks as if someone forgot to latch the bear’s cage!
Run, Sigyn, run!!!
Harrumph. I have been dragged
kicking and screaming protesting decorously from the Knights exhibit and hauled off to the Paleontology wing. Since none of the toothy beasties figured is alive to be recruited to my cause, I find this a good deal less interesting than the glaives and billhooks of the previous exhibit.
Sigyn, I think this smiley whatsit wants to follow you home.
…and possibly eat you, so let’s not adopt it.
A human gastronome, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin , once said, “Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.” This has always intrigued me. I wonder if he really could tell that I was handsome and talented and a genius just by knowing I like roast chicken. Of course, anyone could infer that the human female is white, bland, lumpy, and boring from her love of rice pudding, so I guess there’s that.
Paleontologists have been using that rule of thumb to help figure out what defunct animals were like and how they made their living, based on their teeth.
I have been staring at this creature for twenty minutes now, and I still can’t work out what this thing ate:
Duh. Read the card, Loki.
Cream-filled chocolate sandwich cookies.
We are now looking at some of the works of the talented Mr. Faberge, who never encountered a surface he couldn’t encrust with gold, enamel, and precious stones.
Big smooth river rock?
Boom! Match striker.
The human female is quite taken with the smoky quartz shell cup thing there, the one topped with the hippocampus. (Why DO they call it a hippocampus when it does not look at all like a hippo and has probably never been near a university in its life?)
Sigyn and I like the little matching elephants, one red and one green. They’re sitting on a double bell-push, a device used for summoning servants. There! That right there! I need one of those for my birthday, which is coming up. Hint, hint.
I know my faithful followers must think that all I do is torment the human female. Nothing could be further from the truth! I have plenty of mischief for the human male. Why, just today I played a very good prank indeed!
As you may recall, the human male is quite fond of fountain pens. He has an extensive collection of pens and an even broader range of colored inks. Just to keep him humble, I arranged for a small gravity fluctuation in his storage area, with the result that just now there was the delightful noise of a whole box of inks falling over— and one of the bottles broke! Now I get to laugh while he cleans up the carnage. It was contained in the plastic box, but I imagine it is still pretty messy. Let’s go see!
Oh, no! Why did it have to be one of the GREEN inks?!
What a dreadful waste.
There was a bottle of Lamy ink in the box. Lamy packages their inks with some blotting paper. It seems to have done its job like a champ.
Oh! Here is the actual broken bottle. Great Frigga’s corset! There’s a huge chunk missing from the shoulder!
Why did it have to be such a lovely ink in such a nice bottle? I hate it when my mischief backfires on me! This might ruin my whole afternoon.
She’s trying to figure out how to get stuck in the bottle, isn’t she?
My beloved and I have accompanied the human female to a place she calls the "Herbarium." At first, I thought this was going to be a place of herbs, sweetly fragrant with thyme, rosemary, and pipperjoy (which is grown in Asgard but is very uncommon on Midgard). Sadly, no. Remember all the plants we collected and smashed? This is where they ultimately end up.
There is evidently some identification work to be done today. Much as she would like to think she knows every plant out there, she so very much doesn’t. When collectors send plants they do not know the names of, the human female has to sit down and figure out what they are.
Ah. Number 533. I can tell you what this is. It’s a lump of green stuff.
The human female says part of it is a liverwort. Truly? That’s the best name you can make up? The bit with actual oblong leaves is…. something different.
She thinks it might be a species of Callitriche, but since the sample doesn’t have any fruit, she can’t be sure. That is a very good "out", blaming the identification failure on the plant and not her failing acumen. Poor old Number 533 may just have to remain unidentified.
This one is much less tiresome. It has nice, big, colorful parts.
Sigyn quite likes the red-seeded fruit. Euonymus atropurpurea var. atropurpurea. Otherwise known as Burningbush or Eastern Wahoo. Who NAMES these things?!
Sigyn, come out of those papers before you get folded away, boxed up, and left behind!