Returned from the airport—everyone (but me) is in Phoenix for the holidays. C is shindigging with clients in Toronto, and I’m hiding out at mum’s for the evening.
I could close my eyes, and the entire season might slip past with only a Guinness or two to show for it.
And Nigel Hawthorne on the tellie (he was something, back then).
And maybe a new cat.
There’s a stray that cries on the back porch. At least I hope she’s a stray—I’ve let her in the house once already, and have taken to leaving food out. By the Feast of Stephen, I’ll have her moved in, and tagged. Erika, I think. Which will bring us from 1 cat to 4 in the space of 2 months.
I haven’t written a word since NaNo, which makes for an odd sort of withdrawal. Late in the morning, my hands start shaking, and the oddest phrases come into my head. Openers, segues. A call on Sad Goat twists into a vignette, which I can’t quite shape. Stories, everywhere, but none of them mine.
Could be I need a drink.