Ouchie

Oh, look. Most of the last week, I have been proofreading and not writing (this wasn't the plan, it just worked out that way; I thought I could combine the two, but - not so much, akshually. My one-track mind, let me show you it.) (Or more truthfully, I have been trying to write a short story to commission during this hiatus, and getting almost nowhere with it. But let's not think about that.)

Anyway, my point: not so much typing, this last week. Not none, but really, not so much at all. Practically rest-time, these fingers have been idling.

So why do they hurt so bloody much? Now? It's not like I've done anything else to inflame them, I've just - well, not-typed.

Post hoc propter hoc: the only cure for my RSI is more of the work that causes it.

*sighs*

Unless soul clap hands and sing, and louder sing

I am a paltry thing tonight: all day, indeed, I have been paltry. Having dispensed with proofs at last, I ought to be entirely getting back to work today, but I am almost entirely not. A line or two in this, a line or two in that: I got nuthin'. I's broke.

I may be broke. We'll see. I have wine, I have nibbles; dinner is more or less cooked, so there's nothing to do for two hours but be here. If I can work, I shall work. If not, I'll read: Louis Macneice and Catherine the Great, since you ask. At least we can call that work.

Meanwhile, Barry has climbed to the highest point in his landscape - atop a box atop a bookcase, well out of my reach - and is tearing wallpaper from the uttermost corner, because he is Evil. Or attention-seeking, or registering a protest. Who knows?

A solitary Chinese woman does tai-chi in the park opposite my window. When she's done, she puts on a red bobble-hat and her glasses, and then she just sits on the bench there. For an hour, on her own, in (today) the biting cold. Maybe she does mental tai-chi? She fascinates me. And no, I am not going to go and talk to her.