Into the white wilds of Brighton

Calliope woke me sliding her catfoody chops on my face. Hard frost overnight, and a little more snow. Worked on my poems this morning, finishing one about the clock my grandparents had in Guernsey, which disconcertingly dongs when you pick it up, even though it is not wound and now lives in a box.

I was contacted by my French clients with a brief on some digital work promoting Normandy, which at least is a part of France I have been too. Quite a handy drop of work right now, while it is virtually impossible to get out there and schmooze.

In the evening off to see Lorraine. Walked there, feeling rather adventurous, and grateful for my walking stick with its jabby end, and wore many layers and a fleecy hat and walking boots. Some treacherous stretches, and the ice cracking underfoot, and the snow and air sparkling on the edge of the park.

Really nice evening with Lorraine and Dawn. Dawn brought some mulled wine with her, and we drank this and ate a Christmas pudding and custard. Another little Christmas. A fair amount of enjoyable gossiping. And Lorraine and Dawn giving me lots to think about when we were discussing Skelton Yawngrave, including the possibility of reading it in schools. Also learned this week that Janet was Dawn's tutor when she studied arts management.

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