There are professional lectures of Crankenstein’s I could deliver in my sleep, so often has she rehearsed them with me. My responsibilities range from timing her to critiquing her performance or double-checking the slides for errors, and I usually try to anticipate the questions — from the inane to the adversarial — she might field afterward.*
Tonight she sprung a surprise on me as soon as she got home from work: there’s a new hour-long lecture she’s giving this week and we needed to rehearse it so she could shore up a few things ahead of another run-through tomorrow morning. We’re done with that now and she did a great job and I was happy to help, but there’s not enough time left this evening for me to throw together much of a post. And so, with that laborious explanation out of the way, it’s the dreaded return of small stuff, beginning with the opening of the lighthouse kit. (That’s a taped-up truck bed in the background, one that will be painted and filled with potatoes.)
Next up: a hearty lighthouse breakfast served in 1:24, which means it’ll fit on your fingertip. This meal was whipped up by a talented California artist I’ll mention in a future hobby site post.
If you’re still feeling peckish, here are a couple of snacks for Crankenstein’s cabin. She has a pre-bedtime ritual of nibbling shredded cheese while immersed in a book, and like many who work in hospitals she was sustained by little more than vending machine crackers during the latter half of med school and much of residency. These were made by an amazing North Carolinian who will also get a proper shout-out in a future post about the cabin.
Speaking of the cabin, Crankenstein loved her 1:12 Lord of the Rings trilogy so much that she requested a couple more Tolkien volumes made in the same style (i.e., containing several pages of actual text). I was able to find one, The Hobbit, and got a medical textbook at the same time. My collection of Pete and Basil props also expanded with a fortune teller sign (yes, I’m going to end up with a miniature turban; Madam Basilova can share his with Norma Desmond), Betty Crocker’s Cooky Book, and some of Basil’s reading material.** It’s all 1:12 except a 1:24 copy of Advanced Potion-Making.
I’ve been working on my painting since the “Angels in Chains” figures should arrive soon, and I’ll reveal some of the embarrassing results before the month is through. A few of my practice figures are a little smaller than half-scale, while these three newbies are larger:
Umbrella Guy’s an in-joke pertaining to Pete and Basil parasol lore, while the other two are Pete and Nan as kids. I’m not a big fan of the cut of Pete’s pants, but such is life. He and Nan still need to be sanded, washed and primed, while Umbrella Guy’s ready for painting. The rug in the background isn’t for the cottage, as you can likely tell from its size, but I didn’t want all the foot traffic leaving scuffs on the floor. Oh, and Basil’s sitting on something as perfect for him as the fainting couch and davenport: it’s one of those connected chair/phone table combos tailor-made for gossips.
All right, that’s it for tonight. Maybe tomorrow will bring something less stupid.
* Depending on the engagement, she could have one or more of several audiences: medical students, residents, fellow faculty, the public, entire hospital departments or divisions, professional associations, etc. When testing how she’d handle jerks or oddballs during Q&A sessions, I prefer playing the role of a particular faculty member whose supercilious delivery of inane questions has captured my imagination. Of course, that describes so many people she’s worked with over the years that she’ll probably ask “Which one?” after reading this.
** His horror movie fascination is mostly about the makeup and special effects.