Dear Daybook:

[desperance]

Today I have polished and sent away the first 10K of my space opera attack novel, now indeed to be known as OVERSIGHT; and also "Ashes to Ashes", the short story for the David Bowie memorial anthology (which is also a bar story, a space-bar story, despite its own denials: "It's not a bar, though you can certainly get a drink. And pay for it. Parry likes to call it the rest between bars. That's probably by way of being a joke, though you'll never see him crack a smile.").

Also, I have committed gardening, in the sense of bringing home new herbs, and therefore having to hack back the overbearing oregano and root out the accursed bermudagrass before I could plant new French tarragon and a couple of different thymes in the herb bed. Which-all led to a blinding revelation, as reported elseweb, that I am only ever any good in the garden when I have new things to plant. Therefore - and purely in the interests of an ongoing maintenance programme, which is what any and every garden needs above all else - I should buy new plants and plant new seeds on a rolling weekly basis, oh yes. And thus have the full busy garden that I pine for, and keep it tolerably cared for too. [/epiphany]

Now: what should we have for dinner? I am clueless.