desperance

Oh, but it looks cold out there. To judge not by the weather itself, which is invisible today, but by the people who inhabit it: hurrying head down, huddled into their coats and mufflers. (Mufflers! When did you last hear anyone call a scarf a muffler? I don't believe I ever have; as I remember, the little carol-singers in The Wind in the Willows are all done up in mufflers on Badger's doorstep, and that's where I learned it. But today the fashion is to wrap your scarf across your face, and - yeah. Mufflers.)

Anyway. I haven't been out in it, and I'm half hoping not to. I do need to go have a chat with the vet, but I am also half expecting a phone call of doom, and I'd sooner be in when it comes. I hate all phone calls, but it's easier to answer a ringing phone than it is to dial out. Is that odd? I don't think so; with an incoming call, at least you know the person on the other end wants to talk to you, and is ready to do so now. Calling out, you can never tell what you're interrupting but you're safe to be interrupting something; and you have to make your way through receptionists and office juniors and all of that before you get the person you're told you need to speak to, and and and. Hate hate hate.

So I shall sit at home and check my proofs (which is a virtue anyway, as they're due tomorrow; I actually need not to be writing Pandaemonium today, alas; thanks to