Bare feet flat to the padded floor of the practice room, he just brushed 6 feet tall, making him a good hand-span or two taller than the blonde man stretching in preparation across from him. His limbs were long and toughly muscled, as opposed to bulky – built for distance and endurance over brute strength. When not tied back from his high forehead, and matted black with sweat, his shoulder length hair was the dark brown of polished delan wood. Rough chopped ends testified to his impatience with guild rules which dictated hair could be no longer, and with custom which had short hair as the province of the ruling Houses.

“So you’re actually going to take the trip? Sim hadn’t been at the ale after all?” The other man on the mat gripped his practice sword in a two-handed stance and prepared to attack.

Luk shrugged and raised his own sword in defence.

“Seriously? You’re going past the borders?” the blonde shifted forward and then circled before lunging.

This time the only answer Luk gave was a grunt as he easily parried the blow and started an attack of his own.

“But with Tribal guides?” The shorter man stumbled backwards from the force of the attack, but kept up his stream of questions. “And one a woman?!”

“They’re the best”. Luk swung his wooden blade up under the guard of his opponent, twisting it so the other blade flew to the floor with a clatter, and his own ended up resting at the base of the other’s throat. “You weren’t even trying, Jac”.

“I had my mind on other things!” Jac – Pirael Jiacomo, as he was listed on the guild rolls – retorted as he stooped to collect his blade, then made to return it to the racks at the side of the room. “Enough. The only time I ever could best you was when you’d had the hide thrashed off you by a Master and even then you were fighting with your right hand tied behind you in forfeit. I’ve had about all the humiliation I can handle at your hands today. Time we sat down with a brew and you explained to me how the best mercenary on the Guild’s books got himself marked for guide-dogging a merchant through the borders with just the backup from some tribal scurf of dubious descent”.
“And a scholar. Don’t forget there’s a scholar as is one of those I am to guide too”. A tiny grin lifted the edge of Luk’s wide mouth.
“How could I forget the scholar!” Jac threw his hands in the air and pushed his tall companion out the door towards the changing rooms. “Shower – beer – explanation. And in that order. I’ve a feeling I’m going to be needing as much fortification as I can get down my throat to get a handle on this news”.

It’s been eight months as opposed to the three initially planned, but the time has come to leave Palace Meadows for pastures new - The Meadow-Yet-To-Be-Named. I am going to miss my bijou little room in central Oxford. It has been so ridiculously conveniently located for everything, I’ve never been more than a ten minute walk from a destination. Plus it has been a haven for me whilst I was settling into this strange and wonderful new city.

Still, a girl has needs and those needs are primarily:
1) more bookshelf space
2) more wardrobe space
3) somewhere to sit other than her bed
4) rent that leaves enough left over each month to actually afford to eat
and 5) fewer mice making their home under her desk.

Plus it’s just time for a change - as ever, the lure of new people and new places to explore is pushing me onwards. OK, so that ‘onwards’ is just the other side of Oxford (a bare thirty minute walk from my current front door), but it is still an adventure. Plus the new house has a cat, so I should at least be safe from any mice that have stowed away in my packing boxes!

Talking of packing boxes, long experience has taught me that you always need twice the number of boxes you thought you did. I’d thought I’d taken this into consideration… Turns out my stuff has been breeding behind my back (and that I am better at utlising space than I’d thought). I keep finding yet more STUFF in this room! Hands up who wants to help Cas move tomorrow?!

The next time I blog it will be from the new house. Eek!

(And hangers? Hangers are the worst things to pack. They take up so much space, weigh more than you’d think, and form an impenetrable bundle of plastic and wire when you try and unpack at the other end. There has to be a better solution…)

I voted today and for the first time in many years, I felt odd about it. Unconnected from the process. Previously, walks to, and from, the polling station would have been filled with debate, and the odd argument, on the different candidates, their policies, and what it would mean. This evening it was just me and my thoughts, composing this post as I walked along. This is the first time in years I have not been actively engaged in the very policies that affect me.

I couldn’t pick my candidates out of a line up if you paid me.
I have no idea which party is best for my area.

So I was left voting for the party which has held my allegiance for years now. So I invariably voted for that party in the past as well, but then I at least felt that I was making an informed decision.

What is different about this year? It’s simple - this year I am not working for the local government. Between 2006 and 2008, my life was inextricably linked to the policies and the people that made them. My job was, to a certain extent, dependent on the whim of the councillors I voted for each year. They weren’t just faces on an election leaflet to me, or names on a ballot – they were people who I might talk to on the phone, or hold a meeting with. I wrote briefing papers to sway their opinion one way or the other. You couldn’t help but know the ins and outs of how the local government was made up, and it certainly made you appreciate being able to vote for new bosses each year!

Since moving to Oxford, I have moved in different circles. I have felt completely separated from local politics and I have missed the knowledge I used to have about what was happening in my community. I never thought I was privileged before, but I realise I was actually very lucky.

I could have kept myself up to date, read the leaflets, watched the news, but somehow I just couldn’t engage myself to do that. And if I, an educated, intelligent woman, couldn’t engage, are we really to be surprised when turnout is so low?

Either way, if you haven’t already, there is still time till the polls close this evening. Your vote really does matter. Feel your Council Tax is too high? (This, for the curious, is what has led me to have to depart from Palace Meadows). Want to grumble with me about the state of parking in the city, or how stupid the recycling system is? If you didn’t vote, I will refuse to talk to you about it.

Take it from me, your local councillors really DO have a lot of impact on how you live your daily lives. It’s up to you to make sure your opinion is listened to. As a nation we are incredibly fortunate to have regular and democratic elections. Make the most of it.

Just so you know, I’m breaking a cardinal rule and blogging whilst drunk here. OK, not drunk, just mildly merry, but still. Intoxicated. Not good. Please feel free to ignore anything said from here on in…

Why am I buzzed on a school night? Because this evening was the work annual party (because we rock), so the whole division went punting on the Cherwell, then had a lovely BBQ, and wine, and strawberries and cream. You really couldn’t have had a more English evening! Plus the weather was perfect.

Only one movie trailer for you today - it’s been a bit of a quiet week. There was this one to do with secret agent guinea pigs, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sully the blog with it. Low they might be, but I *do* have standards.

So the trailer?

9 - I’ve shown the teaser to this before (and actually the teaser works better, more intriguing), but this still looks like an awesomely screwball movie from some brilliant minds. A must see.

It was Moose who first introduced the concept of RLOs to me, in a roundabout fashion. They had their genesis in her Perfect Bus Guy’s. PBGs are men who would be seen in the near distance, possibly on the same bus to work as you, with a certain regularity. They were perfect, because you could imagine anything about their personality, as you gazed in complete safety at their attractiveness. I’ll leave Moose to explain in the comments the more subtle intricacies of what does/doesn’t form a PBG (if she is so inclined).

RLOs, or Random Lust Objects, are just such people. People who cross your path on a semi-regular basis, who have something about them that makes them lust-worthy. You are never sure when they are going to pop up, but when they do, they brighten your day ever so slightly. They can be total strangers, say you just spot them in the canteen every now and again, or they can work down the corridor from you, or be colleagues. (Though colleagues tend to fall more into the EDLO category, that is Every Day Lust Objects). You might know their name, or you might not. You might never speak - that is fine (Moose would argue that conversation just runs the risk of ruining their Perfectness). They are a reason to make sure you looked your best. Something to make you smile, despite the evil phone call you had just taken. Yes, you could argue it is objectification, but part of what makes an RLO/EDLO is that it is totally innocent. Nothing is never overt, and nothing is acted upon. RLOs, almost by definition, are totally off-limits, and that is what makes them so perfect. It’s the workplace equivalent of lusting after Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp.

I used to work in an office that was blessed with RLOs and, at one point, my cup ranneth over with three EDLOs. That was pure workplace bliss.

Now, things aren’t so rosy. I lack RLOs, let alone EDLOs. I’m finding myself having to lower my standards as to what makes such an individual. Thinking about it, there are just two confirmed RLOs in my orbit, and they are very, very random, sometimes never seen from one month to the next. Considering the gender-split in Publishing, let alone Children’s (overwhelmingly female), this isn’t surprising. But, you see, I had grown used to being surrounded with exemplars of male beauty on an (almost) daily basis. I admit it, I was spoilt, but considering how stressful the job itself was, I think that a little bit of spoiling was justified. I’ve come to see the provision of a ready supply of RLOs as an essential, along with a decent wage and a kettle to make regular cuppas.

It is sad, but I think I have finally found the downside to the move to Oxford and my career change. I can live in a beautiful city and do a job I love, but I don’t get pretty men to lust after. I see two ways out: leave Oxford and the job; or encourage more attractive men to work in Publishing. The former is not going to happen anytime soon, so that leaves Option Two. And I think the men out there are missing a trick - here is an industry awash in estrogen. Quite simply, all you single men out there, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

Hear my call, oh Publishing Gods! Your newest disciple is struggling to keep the faith. Show her a sign, let her know the appalling wages, uncertain future given the current economic climate, endless papercuts and eyestrain from all the manuscripts aren’t all that await her! Push a few RLOs in her direction, please?