Rejecting rejection

Resting mangled leg in my study, sorting and stacking more books in with the help of an additional bookcase I lifted on top one of the ones added at the weekend. The cats hanging around me, and sitting in boxes when they became available. Feeling really happy about my study. I'm not sure what to call it really. The Study, The Office, The Nervecentre?  I've even found myself calling it My Bedroom a couple of times. Nice to surrounded by my books and a single window with a lovely view - currently mitigated by guano on the glass.

Have also been forcing myself to thrown things away, chiefly bits of paper, drafts of useless poems, and most symbolic of all, old rejections that I'd kept from publishers. Forcing myself to wonder why the hell am I treasuring rejection? No longer.

Lorraine and Beth out all day and most of the evening, so I spent most of the day on this kind of thing. FaceTimed Mum who, with Mas, are still glum and coldy. Also and spoke briefly to Janet two seconds after she sent me an email.

I reached a point this evening when I had to stop pottering about. There is so much to do, but leg and brain like an unusually configured Man From Del Monte said NO. So I spent the the remainder of the evening nursing the Limb of Evil eating the PK comfort food of spaghetti and chuckling at Fraziers, till Lorraine returned, with a painting of a yellow rose that Carolyn had made for our wedding present. To bed, then Beth returned who sat on the end of the bed, laughing about assorted subjects till late.