372

That's a pagecount. 372. I ought properly to be head down and charging by now, but as we know, Carl, we were interrupted. I no can haz momentum.

Even so, I could perhaps finish this book in fifty pages.

I can, as it happens, write fifty pages in a week. I'm no good at deathmarches, we've established that, but still. Seven pages a day, I can do that. I can.

There's a week left before the end of November. Which was my original private deadline to finish this book. Which I had abandoned in view of hospitals and hurty and such, but...

I have nothing booked in, for next week. It is a blank on the wallchart.

Seven pages a day.

I can, y'know. I can do that.

In other news

The boys are out there on the landing, where the sunshine is.

Mac has the top step, and is pressed against the balustrade to snatch the last minutes of sunshine as the mischievous stuff moves on.

Barry is on top of the chest of drawers: which is a position he can defend, and which will inherit the sun any moment now and keep it for at least twenty minutes.

Um, he can't possibly have thought about this, can he...?

[Also, does Barry get warmer than Mac in sunshine, on the ground of having black fur which should absorb more heat than a classic tabby...?]