I couldn’t sleep all night; a fog-horn groaned incessantly in the Sound
The Great Gatsby; it’s the only book I can quote so I do, probably too much.
It’s twelve minutes past nine, I’ve deposited my children to various educational facilities and hung up a load of washing on the drying rack. I fed the dog, put on the dishwasher, took meat out of the freezer and picked the nine remaining apples from our tree (well, I left the low hanging ones for Charlie). I’m sitting at my desk, with a smelly candle lit beside me (thanks Canada), munching through my bowl of apple muesli. This is my view:
If I were to angle the camera to the left you would see a big mucky hole in the ground but that’s a story for another day.
The muesli campaign continues although I need to confess that the results have been a long ways short of spectacular. After two weeks of ‘being good’, eating muesli, avoiding cheese, decorating, digging and otherwise working my generously proportioned butt off I have lost the colossal sum of 0.2 Kg (half a lb).
Ah, that’s better.
I finished Jeremy Poldark last night. That’s book three of Winston Graham’s Poldark series. I am thoroughly enjoying it but I see no point in reviewing each book as I read them. I wrote about the first one, Ross Poldark, here. They don’t stand alone as novels, it’s more like reading one very long book. Not even that, it’s like reading the latest letter from a friend who happens to live in Cornwall in the 18th century. Escapism at its most romantic. Suffice to say, I’ve added the next three to my Amazon wish list.
I woke up in the middle of Saturday night from a nightmare that, if I could manage to relate it, would give Stephen King cause for concern. If I say dead people, half-dead people and maybe-dead people, does that tell you enough? I genuinely believe that I stopped breathing near the end of it because I woke up gasping for air. I don’t seem to have quite caught my breath since. Bad dreams are usually a signal that anxiety is getting the better of me. Time to start a new crochet project.
Middle Girl (our Songbird) has recently taken up guitar lessons and I’ve a notion to crochet a pretty strap for her guitar. I shall be winging it; it shouldn’t be too difficult, should it? Famous last words…
So we beat on, crochet hook in hand, borne back ceaselessly to the toaster.