Prematurity

The letters page of "The [London] Times" is the traditional place to record hearing the first cuckoo of spring; I think LJ is the obvious place to record sighting the first Christmas-branded object.

My local supermarket has Xmas stockings out, in mid-August.

They're for cats.

He's not getting one. However much he yowls and looks cute. Not now, not later. Not in December. Never.

This one matters

It's Brian Aldiss's birthday today. Just sayin'.

Oh, glee

Ganked from xnamkrad: I want mystic dwarfs too!

What the day did to me

It was planned, today was. There were people coming this afternoon to insulate my loft; and yet, I did have to go into town; and yet, I really did want to scoot through the play and send it off.

So, I planned it. I was up, I had drunk coffee, I had the play in my bag and the boots on my feet; I was going into town, to the Lit & Phil, where I would scan & scribble on the play till I was content. Then I would shop for coffee & mushrooms, and be home for noon for the insulators.

It wasn't just raining; it was thundering. Downpouring. Stair-rodding.

No matter. I had said; it was decided. I walked into town.

I got very, very wet.

I dripped, in the Lit & Phil. Loudly, in the Silence Room. Happily I was alone, but even so I felt guilty. And went on dripping.

And read the play, & scribbled all over it as per The Plan; and went shopping after - yes, in the rain, getting wetter - and bought coffee & mushrooms and sundry books and such, and so came home.

To find a message from the insulators, saying that their van had broken down and they weren't coming.

So I sat around wetly and worked on the play, and sent it off (God, I do love e-mail and all its attachments) just in time to open a bottle of wine and watch 'Show Boat', while Himself began his usual it's-only-two-hours-till-supper-time-and-I'm-hungry-now fussing. To which I am so inured that - to my eternal shame - when the movie was over I came straight upstairs humming "Ol' Man River" and checked my e-mail.

And found a message from my editor, about 'River of the World'. And suddenly didn't dare open it (fyi, new readers - the comparable e-mail about the previous book, 'Bridge of Dreams', led to a year of bitterness, crisis & rewrites, from which I have still not recovered financially, emotionally or professionally. And I still say she was wrong), so recovered my standing in Barry's eyes by suddenly noticing & feeding him, and then opening another bottle of wine instead.

But did at last open the e-mail - and s'okay, she gets this one. She likes it. She wants easy rewrites, sensible stuff. That I can do, and I don't even need to hate her.

So now I know what I'm doing for the rest of this month, which had been a bit of an open question until this. What I'm doing for the rest of this day is drinking more wine. I like wine.