But why is there no more holiday?

So Karen had this fabulous party yesternight, with a dozen lovely people who ate all my chocolate beetroot cake entirely; and I read "Quinquereme of Nineveh", which is the story I wrote last time I was here, and "2Π To Live", which is the story I wrote this week; and otherwise we just sat around in the clubhouse and drank drinks and talked and such. Oh, and laughed lots. I remember lots of laughing.

And then there was the going-to-bed thing, and the necessary sleeping; and now it is morning, and Karen will be home in an hour for lunch, and then she will take me to the airport.

And my shoulder is seizing up, and I have no appetite even for coffee, and y'know what? I don't want to go. Very very seriously, I do not want to go. This has only been an idyll, I do know that, a pause between drafts of my novel, drafts of my serious life; and even so. Don't wanna.

En route

Safely through security at San Jose: unarrested, unchallenged. Even smiled at, which was nice.

Am now snatching a moment of free wifi and a glass of incredibly expensive pilsner, because one must pass the time somehow and drinking seems to be the way to do it. Apparently I do still have an appetite for alcohol.

Mostly, though, I am going to read my book and not give a thought to working. Absolutely not. I abjure working. (Though I will pause just to point out that if you go here you can apparently download an Audible release of one of my crime stories. This will in fact be a criminal act, as I know nothing about this and have certainly not licensed it, but hey. It's there, you can do it.)