Snippet

Often and often, of course, a good line will come from nowhere (or from the kettle, perhaps, in the steam; I was making coffee, as I often am). Frequently, of course, they end up going nowhere.

I have no idea, none, where this might go: but as a snippet, as a moment, yes. I love it.

Not half an hour into the peroration, and I could stand no more. I leaned towards my neighbour and murmured, "This man? Is the original Dust whom England bore."
Thank heaven for a literate stranger; he laughed, and toasted me with his hip-flask, and mutely offered me a tot.

Post WW1, obviously - but not I think the WW1 we know. Not quite the same result. Not to say that the Germans might have won - I believe the mathematics were against them, and who can argue with number? - but something's shifted. And I do love that period, where you have a Victorian generation and an Edwardian generation and the new young brittle damaged folk all together, and each with an utterly different understanding of the world.

The Not-So-Dry Salvages

In other news, I dug my finger into the vegetable bed yesterday morning, and was a little appalled how dry the soil was. I've been watering once or twice a day, but none the less.

Okay, lesson learned. Half of yesterday I had the sprinkler going, giving everything a thorough soak while I lay mostly on the sofa feeling ill and making comfort foods (bread and beef hash - both of which can mostly be accomplished by lying on the sofa, I find).

Wakeful overnight, I heard the strangest sound. My English soul wanted to call it rain, but don't be ridiculous, soul, said I. This is California, it's almost summer, June. That isn't rain.

Got up this morning? To heavy grey overhead and damp underfoot. Rain it was, then. Where I lead, Providence follows...

Further to my last

I am not the embodiment of virtue, but I do try to be. I have no set habit of work here, but I am reaching for it. As witness: I had donned my sandals and my cap, I had packed my manuscript in my bag, I was at the door and heading for my substitute-office, a cafe downtown of which I am passing fond.

I set foot outside, and brr. It is raining again, and chilly out there. And I am full of cold yet; and this is California, in June: I don't want to dig out socks and boots, and pull a jacket on over my T-shirt, and hustle off with my head down and my shoulders hunched against the weather.

I am making a fresh pot of my own coffee, and am staying home. I shall spread my work out over the kitchen table, and see if I can get it done regardless. If not, if I submit to the siren song of couch and O'Brian, well, hey. At least I tried.

[EtA: hmm. I appear to have written this but not posted it. Maybe I'm sick or something... Anyway: I did stay home, and I didn't finish my work, and I did spend significant time on the couch. Which I never called a couch, before I came here. I thought language was hard-wired, but apparently not.]