Managed to get my emails fairly well sorted this morning, and am fiddling around with marketing bits and pieces. And we’ve been busy moving printers around to try to accommodate the new person we’re getting in the office at some stage. Goodness knows where we’re going to put them though – we’re pretty packed as it is. And new people – gosh, scary …
This lunchtime, I chilled out with a reflexology session with Emily. Wonderful. The only problem was having to walk through the rain to get there. Darnit. Just as I was getting into the mood for spring too. Must be yesterday’s cuckoo and bluebells moment.
Tonight, I shall pop into see Gladys on my way home, and then it’s an evening in. Lovely. Ooh, and we have leftover chicken roast from yesterday, plus the remains of the plum crumble I made. Double bliss. I’m also hoping to get some more done to the ending of The Bones of Summer but I suspect it will take me a while to get into it again, as I don’t think I’ve done any all week. That fact alone is making me jittery.
Anyway, here’s a poem - untitled:
Touch is more powerful than tongue
lightning to thunder
flash of contact
to set free or burn
for good or bad
what the tongue divides.
And the middle neighbour is finally getting rid of the furniture he’s had for the last forty years – this consists of storing it in the garden until the Council can come and take it away. Apparently, it was actually his wife’s furniture and he’s kept it far longer than he did her. And no, sadly, that doesn’t mean the former wife is buried in the garden – fabulous though that would be – he’s divorced. At least, I assume she’s not buried in the garden, but here in the shires you never can tell precisely what people really mean … Though goddammit, at least he didn’t keep her in the cellar for 24 years. Something for which we should be truly thankful. That is, one assumes. Though maybe next time Lord H wants to store something in the house cellar, I might just ask him to look. Ye gods, in all truth, none of us is safe ...
Today’s nice things:
2. The possibility of writing
3. Chicken & crumble.