Heavy cat is heavy, warm house is warm

Heh. I caught Barry checking himself out on the bathroom scales this morning. I haz a twelve-pound cat.

He is of course not fat, he's only big-boned. We're quite firm on that point. Various other points may be a little squishy, but not that one.

In other news, I waited in for the lovely plumber and he came, and the central-heating pump is now fully operational once more. I haz a warming house. The boys approve of this, and so do I. This morning I was watching my own breath in puffy vaprous clouds. Oddly, not the boys'; perhaps they have more efficient engines? Or they just preserve moisture more effectively, being desert creatures and all. (I actually quite like that feeling after the plumber's gone, that I have done my job and he's done his. Okay, it costs me money and all, but even so. I have been householderly; he has been plumblike; together we have acted against entropy. It's all good.)

In other other news, I cannot believe that I have not finished this book yet. How can such a thing even be? But there it is, or rather isn't. I'm appalled. The state of appalledness is doubtless helpful in such cases.

Gotta stop somewhere for the night

 

83838 / 80000 words. 104.8% done!

Still not finished. Nearly there, but - well. Fed up now. At my limits again, apparently. It's odd, when I'm writing a long book I can do two K, two and a half, three if I'm pushing it. With a short book? I can't break 2K. This is the closest I've come, I think, 1800 or thereabouts; most days I've been content with 1000, happy with 1500. When I was writing Shelter (my shortest book, 70K), I used to settle for two pages. Steps in proportion, I guess - but it is odd.