To my scattered agents go

...and, more importantly, to my editor. New book, submission draft: polished up, parcelled up and gone. Phew.

[ETA: response from editor? Out-of-office. Figures...]

Tonight I dine in town with almost the oldest of my friends, almost the longest-standing. But that's dinner, and this isn't lunch yet. What to do, with the day between...?

Oh lor', I don't know. 'Spect I'll think of something. It may well involve shopping. Or alcohol. Or work. Or all of those.

Meantime I have good bread (I know it's good, I baked it); I have chorizo and bacon and mushrooms and eggs. It is not impossible that I can create a luncheon fit for a man who has no book to write. Until this afternoon, perhaps...

If I'm going to go and come back and go again...

... I should just go, right?

Right.

Also, I have just figured out what it is about Mac.

Stone deaf, that's what it is. Since kittenhood.

When his momma told him that cheese was good to eat, he misheard it; he thought she said "Chaz". Which is why he tries to eat me on a daily basis.

When she told him venison was yummy, he heard "vegetables".

Not sure what she was saying when he heard "mushrooms", but she must have said it often, 'cos that one sure sunk in.

Also, when I tell him not to do something, and he just carries right on doing it?

Stone deaf, clearly.

Quite how it is he manages to come on the instant when I call him to his tea, I haven't quite figured out yet, but there will doubtless be an explanation.