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desperanceStatus: grumpy.
I should be in town right now, having lovely lunch with lovely friend.
When lovely friend phoned this morning, though, to fix arrangements: well, I looked out of the window and saw how the snow was swirling down, how it lay inches-deep already; I felt how cold I was indoors; I coughed and sneezed and felt reluctance like a gloomy weight across my shoulders. When he offered to postpone, in view of both the weather and the unfinishedness of book (which lunch was supposed to be a celebration of finishing), I snatched at it.
And have regretted that more or less since then. 'Specially since it stopped snowing. Gods, but I am such a wimp sometimes...
Still. The unfinished book is another three pages longer, which it wouldn't have been else; and it will grow further, I hope, this afternoon. Which it wouldn't have done. And there will be other days, and other lunches. This is promised.
So. Chicken soup for lunch, instead of loveliness (yes, yes, it is a good chicken soup; it is needful; it is probably far better for me than going out and lunching lovelily). And then more workfulness. Tiresome things, books: 'specially at this point, where the end seems to be retreating almost exactly as fast as I turn out pages.
I should be in town right now, having lovely lunch with lovely friend.
When lovely friend phoned this morning, though, to fix arrangements: well, I looked out of the window and saw how the snow was swirling down, how it lay inches-deep already; I felt how cold I was indoors; I coughed and sneezed and felt reluctance like a gloomy weight across my shoulders. When he offered to postpone, in view of both the weather and the unfinishedness of book (which lunch was supposed to be a celebration of finishing), I snatched at it.
And have regretted that more or less since then. 'Specially since it stopped snowing. Gods, but I am such a wimp sometimes...
Still. The unfinished book is another three pages longer, which it wouldn't have been else; and it will grow further, I hope, this afternoon. Which it wouldn't have done. And there will be other days, and other lunches. This is promised.
So. Chicken soup for lunch, instead of loveliness (yes, yes, it is a good chicken soup; it is needful; it is probably far better for me than going out and lunching lovelily). And then more workfulness. Tiresome things, books: 'specially at this point, where the end seems to be retreating almost exactly as fast as I turn out pages.