Incommunicado

This morning I have the world's sexiest voice, all scratch and hesitant vibrato - and it is being entirely wasted, as I have spoken to no one except the cats and Roger, and none of them care a whit.

Also, I had no e-mail when I woke this morning, which was why I had to speak to Roger. It did of course come back exactly as we spoke, but I had spent an hour beforehand wrestling with the problem of how to communicate with one's ISP when one has neither voice nor e-mail, for when I woke I had no voice at all. A hot toddy works wonders, tho' I fancy the cure is temporary if not illusory altogether.

Also also, I have lost the writing thing. I gaze at works in progress, and find I have no interest. In the eighteenth-century sense, I mean that: I am uninvested here, I have nothing to say.

Today seems to be a good day to bake bread. There is a walnut-and-honey granary loaf proving as we speak. If it proves well, it may prove to be the best of me today. Otherwise, I foresee books and TV. DVDs, perhaps. Might this be the time to embark on a comprehensive rerun of Buffy? I still don't know how it ends, y'know...

"Well, some people are ill-bread. Loafing about all day..."

This, now? This is the bread of the world. My local artisanal baker whose praises I sing, he may have lost himself a customer, if it's as good in a couple of days' time as it is warm and fresh. The crumb is good; the crust, though? The crust is to die for. Walnut oil, honey and crunch. Om-nom-nom.

Also, now I want to form the dough around spears of rosemary and bake it thataway. Rosemary brochettes...