I can has disconnect

The trouble with lolcats is, it's such a very good language for subject-lines: brief and pithy and irresistible...

I do still feel crap: heedless and unfocused, largely. And not sleeping. Everything's a struggle. I did make it into the Lit & Phil, but barely. Now that I'm here, what am I doing? Blanking the work and wishing I was home. Pfui.

In other news, my agents have had my book for three weeks - Three! Weeks! - and not reported back. Any day now it'll be a month. A! Month! (And yes, I know that technically there is extra time between three weeks and a month; but if they keep this up for two more days it'll be the weekend, when nothing happens; and by the time next week begins they'll be only a couple of days short of four weeks, which is to all intents and purposes a month...)

My paranoia is already a seething vat of acid. Time is extra vitriol, added to the stew drop by burning drop. Is not good.

Step right up

I am an entrance to Hell. In Ullapool.

I have absolutely no idea what this means, but I am grateful none the less to Laura, for pointing it out.

Soup tomorrow

In a hopeful attempt to make myself feel better by this time tomorrow, all my house is redolent; I am roasting cherry tomatoes with smoked garlic and winter herbs, with the firm intention of souping in the morning. The aroma itself is a health-giving goodness.

For tonight, I shall apply wine internally, and see what a difference that makes.