Mil's Mailing List Mail #36.5

It's a week later and I'm still covered in bruises.

Such is the punishingly repeating sine wave of my life, I really ought to consider binding the above sentence to a time-saving hotkey. What it refers to on this particular occasion, however, I'll explain in a moment. First, let's set about putting a brisk tick of completion against the reason I felt compelled to send out a .5 Mail here.

A magazine called 'B' (I don't know what that letter stands for - and it's too tempting by far to make suggestions) is running a promotion this month - that is, in its August issue; which, by the ludicrous laws of magazine publishing, went on sale on the 1st of July, and will have disappeared entirely by August itself. What it's doing is giving away a free book. You know the 'Things My Girlfriend And I Have Argued About' novel? Eh? Eh? Well, that's not it. Nah - they're giving away a book by Fiona Walker. Fiona Walker is the only best-selling romantic novelist who has ever started talking to me in a bar about buying horse sperm off the Internet. (That's not really relevant, but I sensed you'd what to know it anyway.)

However, B is also offering about half a dozen other books for half price. I'd take a wild guess that most of these other books have blurbs that run, 'Tanya has a glam job at a top London fashion magazine. She has time for nothing but attending endless exciting showbiz parties with her friends Cerise and Arabella, but, with the arrival of lush new editor Lance - who has a mysterious past and expressive eyes - that's all about to change...' That is, apart from TMGAIHAA, with its guaranteed-to-catch-the-women-aged-18-35-demographic 'Pel works in IT at a rubbish university in the North East of England and argues with his girlfriend.' Bottom line: in the unlikely event that you haven't read TMGAIHAA, live in the UK, fancy picking it up for half price, and would be buying a magazine anyway, then you may as well buy B. It's no skin off my nose either way, obv.

Right, back to my injuries.

Last week, as mentioned in Mail #36, some Linux-heads held a convention in Wolverhampton. I couldn't go, because I was attending a friend's book launch in Wales (see as I gratuitously plug the book here), but I did go to the paintball outing they had the next day. I went, in fact, with Margret.

Look.

Yes, damn right I've kept the protective mask on. I'm next to Margret: never mind out in the field, I'm gutted they wouldn't let me take the thing home with me.

It was Margret's first time, but it will surprise precisely none of you that she took to it as if (as I've suspected many times previously, as it happens) she'd secretly been planted in my life by the Michigan militia.

Before I get to the main point, I'll add an aside here - because, thinking about it, it might have some bearing on what comes next. You see, in a full-face mask and big, unflattering overalls, it's tricky to tell who is who at paintball. The only way I could identify Margret was by looking for a woman with blonde hair. Except there were about four other women in the group, all of whom had blonde hair. So, to avoid the embarrassment of affectionately patting some random woman's bottom, I had to carefully assess secondary clues. Yes, that's right: I stared very hard at every woman's breasts. I took Margret out for the day, and spent much of that day openly studying other women's breasts. It's only a stab in the dark, but I suspect Margret may have noticed this and reached a whole ammo dump full of wrong conclusions.

Right, as I mentioned, my body is a Pollock-esque canvass of explosive rainbow bruises. That's always the case when one plays paintball, natch, but take a look at this particular one.

Here.

The interesting thing is its location and when I got it. Here are the facts:
1) It occurred five seconds after a game began - as I was running to take up my initial position. That is, when the only people behind me were other members of my own team.
2) Margret was on my team.
3) It's on the back of my leg.
4) The gun that produced it can't have been more than about three feet away - you can practically see muzzle burn, for God's sake.

It's only a theory, but I don't think one needs George Eads's boxy CSI head to examine this evidence and conclude that Margret - who was supposed to be on my side - gunned me down, from behind, seconds after the shout went up. The amazing thing, in fact, is that, after all these years, I am apparently still capable of having this thought: "OK, I'll get Margret a high-powered weapon, give her two hundred rounds, and then turn my back on her in woodland. What could possibly go wrong?"

I should be happy that I just have to sit down very, very carefully, I suppose. If Margret and I lived somewhere that had firearms laws like Texas I would never have got out of the Eighties alive.

Mil.