An exercise in contrasts

[desperance]

I have - as you know, Bob - a fiancée. Sometimes everything about that statement scares me silly, but every now and then I do need to remember to mention that she's awesome. 'Cos she is.

Me, on the other hand? Not so much. I guess this is that crash that is not so much predictable as inevitable, after the hectic rush of the last week and the kick of the gig on Thursday. It's not that the pressure's off, actually; it's just shifted gear. The Phantoms deadline was unmissable and immediate; the next one's, ooh, the end of next month. (Which my foolish brain keeps miscalculating as two months away. Um, no. Eight weeks: for one of which I'm away with friends, and two of which I'm with Karen. Let's call it five weeks, then. During which I have to write a novel. Um, aaargh?)

Anyway. Yesterday I was craven; today I'm just grey and glum. As is the weather. It's raining, and I don't want to walk to the Lit & Phil in that, thanks. I'm only going to read stuff anyway; I could do that here. I have the technology. And I could do usefulnesses between pages. I could clean the house. I just had to defluff Mac's whiskers, where he'd picked up a dust-bunny. That shouldn't happen to a cat.

Comments

[movingfinger]

The proper term for things carried on a cat's whiskers (at least in our house) is "festoons," which does for dust, cobwebs, and anything else that collects in the exploration of new frontiers or difficult-to-reach old ones.

[desperance]

Yay for proper terminology. Thank you!