Sealed in
Hermetically sealed in the house. Wrote a lot, as the rain tumbled down on the velux windows and the roof. I love that sound. Cats moping about, shy of getting wet, and taking it in turns to plague me at my desk. Calliope following me about the house like a Philip Pullman dæmon, barging into the toilet after me, huffily following me down two flights of stairs when I go to make a cup of tea, resting her head on my hand as I typed and so on. When she finally went to sleep, Brian materialised and stared at me fiercely trying to seed the idea of feeding him chicken scraps in my head. I declined.
Worked steadily on the book with a growing sense of optimism about finishing it. The dispiritingly long stretch where you are definitely well under way, but there is no end in sight is over. Cooked a large vat of chicken, leek and butternut squash soup, transferred essential files to my laptop to ensure a triple backup due to the dubious unreliability of my desktop. Wrote to the Romster about Japan, and generally kept a low profile. And in my spare time reading some poems by Jorie Graham, who I suspect is one of those poets who starts by infuriating you, and you end up liking.
Heard from my amigos in Tavistock Square offering a bit more work, but then deciding they were okay. The bit of stuff I did for them last week won their pitch so my stock remains good for the time being. Rather pleased however because I am on a roll with the book, and I did not have to forge out into the rain to buy a ticket.
When Lorraine came home I fed her soup, as we watched the Great British Bakeoff. I was writing today about nostalgia, and this is a programme full of a kind of nostalgic safeness, where the worst thing that can happen is an underbake, or a soggy bottom on a pie. Later L and I had a small glass of retsina, which sparked a vivid sense memory of sitting on a balcony in Greece.
Worked steadily on the book with a growing sense of optimism about finishing it. The dispiritingly long stretch where you are definitely well under way, but there is no end in sight is over. Cooked a large vat of chicken, leek and butternut squash soup, transferred essential files to my laptop to ensure a triple backup due to the dubious unreliability of my desktop. Wrote to the Romster about Japan, and generally kept a low profile. And in my spare time reading some poems by Jorie Graham, who I suspect is one of those poets who starts by infuriating you, and you end up liking.
Heard from my amigos in Tavistock Square offering a bit more work, but then deciding they were okay. The bit of stuff I did for them last week won their pitch so my stock remains good for the time being. Rather pleased however because I am on a roll with the book, and I did not have to forge out into the rain to buy a ticket.
When Lorraine came home I fed her soup, as we watched the Great British Bakeoff. I was writing today about nostalgia, and this is a programme full of a kind of nostalgic safeness, where the worst thing that can happen is an underbake, or a soggy bottom on a pie. Later L and I had a small glass of retsina, which sparked a vivid sense memory of sitting on a balcony in Greece.
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