March 27, 2012

No Sleep Monday


I put Hannah on the train this morning.  Waaaaaaah. 

            I put Hannah on the train way too early this morning in an absolute sense aside from the losing-Hannah aspect.  I haven’t been out of bed that early since I stopped service ringing. . . . and we just lost our frelling spring-forward hour this weekend.   I am seriously not of this planet right now.  But (being awake for) millions of hours of daylight is, I admit, rather jolly, and the weather goes on being spectacular* if spectacularly dry.**

            So I put Hannah on the train and, sobbing brokenly, parked Wolfgang under a tree near the station and took hellhounds for a hurtle.  Of course I brought them with me.  Doesn’t everyone with companion canines take advantage of every possible excuse for hurtling? 

Mrs Redboots 

I love the way you stress that you know every pub in Mauncester by name only. . . . I have to admit I’d been wondering. . . . 

Well, there are critter-friendly pubs, but we’re generally not going inside even when we can.  We’re hurtling.  But Mauncester is a good walking town, I’ve lived in this area for twenty (and a half) years, and ferreting around in the twisty back bits is fun.  I don’t remember when I crossed the line where I (mostly) stop worrying about getting lost because I know enough of Mauncester that I won’t stay lost very long, but at this point I seek out the bits (especially twisty back bits) I don’t know.  During the foot-and-mouth crisis when the entire countryside was closed we hurtled that generation of resident four-legs in Mauncester and Prinkle-on-Weald.***  Prinkle-on-Weald is now pretty much too far away for anything but an adventure, but Mauncester is closer than it was from the old house.  I also have a very minor fantasy about living in Mauncester—where you can be walking distance of a library†, a cinema and a train station, as well as some very nice English countryside.  It’s not going to happen, but it makes an agreeable directional fantasy:  okay, do I want to live in this neighbourhood?  How does the pub look?

            After this we went back to the mews where I alternately poured cold water over my head and guzzled hot caffeine in a (mostly futile) attempt to wake up.  But I still managed to pretend to sing a little, and went off to my voice lesson.  You are probably aware by other standards that life is full of ratbaggishness?  Over the weekend I’d sung less well than I can, because I was busy being nerrrrrrvous about singing for someone.  While, perversely and simultaneously, I found myself able to ham it up more than I can for Nadia or Oisin—because my audience was a relaxed, friendly and nonprofessional one††.  Nadia, of course, heard what I was (or wasn’t) doing almost immediately, sorted me out with rather embarrassing swiftness††† and then threw me into Dove Sei, which I had cornballed up in a shocking manner for Peter and Hannah.  And of course I stiffened up and sang it like a funerary urn, if funerary urns sang—and this despite the fact that I was making a better quality of noise, if you follow me.  ARRRRRGH.  That’s fine, said Nadia, that’s a very nice tone, now sing it like you’re ENJOYING it.


Diane in MN 

. . . as an opera fan, I tend to cringe when opera singers decide to make crossover albums.  South Pacific may have worked for Ezio Pinza, but Placido Domingo as Tony in West Side Story was not a good idea.  And there is a cruel recording of Jose Carreras singing Jingle Bells. . . . 

JINGLE BELLS?  Oh my . . .  gods.  Oh.  Eeeep.  Did Domingo do a West Side Story?  OUCH.  I lose all respect, etc.  Kiri te Kanawa and Jose Carreras—poor old Jose is listening to the wrong advice, clearly—were bad enough:  I agree that crossover is mostly dire.‡  But I’d gladly—gladly—forfeit all possibility of singing Maria plausibly‡‡ in exchange for sounding like te Kanawa.‡‡‡ 

* * *

* Anthea tonight on the treble commented on the excellence of the view:  where you stand to ring the treble at Glaciation^ is opposite one of those little high arched church windows, and in this case you could see a shiny crescent moon and some glittering planet or other through it.  I had been ringing the treble before her, but I had been staring at the floor in an agony of concentration.  If I’d noticed the moon I would merely have instantly gone wrong. 

^^ I’m still in two wool jumpers to ring there, although it’s shirtsleeve weather in daytime sun.  You wander down the path to the church in your t shirt with your bulging knapsack over one shoulder.  You walk through the vestibule and shiver.  You enter the main part of the church and pull out your first jumper and put it on.  Then you walk into the ringing chamber, hastily don your second jumper, and race to plug in the two electric fires. 

** I was out watering in the cottage garden this afternoon^ and thinking I ought to have a built in irrigation system with All the Plumbing in Hampshire running under my tiny plot of land:  I ought to be able to drill a few tactful little holes, attach those leaky-hose things, and bob’s your uncle.  Pipes should have a nice colour-code system like electric wires, so you know you’re drilling in the right pipe. . . .

^ And swearing.  Later in the year when I shift from my PINK wellies to my (brown) clogs because it’s too hot to be in rubber to your knees, I become resigned to slopping water in my shoes.  It takes skill and dedication to pour water down the inside of your pink wellies.  

*** I missed telling you yesterday that the garden Hannah and I went to was in Chappington Fritworthy.  It’s not like I get to mention it very often. 

† New Arcadia does have a library, but it’s the two shelves and a plastic chair, open alternate Thursdays from 2:45-3 pm and every third Friday from 7-7:17 pm variety.  Mauncester has a proper library. 

†† Not to say clueless.  Clueless would be good. 

††† It’s so obvious after the fact.  Sometimes it’s obvious before the fact too, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you can DO anything about it.  I was aware that my throat was only about half open, the roof of my mouth and my ‘mask’ were pretty well as bright and light as an anvil, and my abdominal support had decamped for Toulouse.    

‡ In both directions.  I HAAAAAAAATED Sting singing Purcell and Dowland.  HAAAAAAAAATED.  

‡‡  heeheeheeheeheeheeheeheeheeheehee 

‡‡‡ Or Deborah Voigt or Janet Baker or Marilyn Horne or Joyce diDonato or Beverly Sills or Tatiana Troyanos or Cecilia Bartoli or . . . see really I’m easy to please.

Spring Sunday with a friend


I’ve been singing.  I’ve been singing with Hannah and Peter in the same room.  It does happen occasionally that I sing when Peter’s around—especially on Mondays when I have to warm up before I go to my lesson, and can’t afford to get too precious about circumstances—but I do not sing for other people.*  I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed or not that it was kind of fun—especially the part with them shouting out suggestions.**  I want to say something rude here about neither of them being musical*** but Hannah . . . for pity’s sake, Hannah goes to Broadway musicals.  It’s not like she doesn’t know what proper singing voices sound like.†  Hannah is a very good friend.

            And, more to the point . . . she’s here.  I left you last night in a Perils of Pauline situation, with our heroine(s) suspended on the brink of being Lost Forever in Darkest Hampshire.  Or possibly not even Hampshire.  Outer Mongolia.  Aberdeen.  Saturn.††   I was just driving back to the cottage in despair††† yesterday when Pooka started barking at me again.  I managed not to run off the road—or more to the point did not run into either of the brick-and-flint walls that claustrophobically enclose the single lane of my steep little cul de sac—and further contrived to press ‘answer’ before the call was swallowed up by the entropic maw of the voice-mail system from which none escape unscathed, and . . . it was Hannah.  The driver has decided maybe it isn’t the Egg and Custard, she said in Old High Manhattan Laconic, maybe it’s the Toast and Marmite.  Or the Daffodil and Schnapps.  Or the Militant Stepdaughter . . .  More emphatic male quacking in the background.  Here, you talk to him, she said.

            But where is it, I said.  Whatever its name is.  There is no Caerphilly Road in Mauncester.

            Yes there is, he said promptly.  It runs north-south through the Doggleburies.

            What? I said.  The only road that runs north-south is the Hindu Kush Turnpike.

            After a good deal of witty repartee on the order of “You mean Banded Dogglebury or Sod-all Dogglebury?” and “The giant chalk boulder that looks like the anti-matter Darth Vader is in Gerrymandering, it’s not in the Doggleburies at all,” the driver, who by this time I had decided had no business behind the wheel of a car that contained my best friend, capitulated and said, “I’ll meet you at the Ultimate Fishmonger.”  “Great,” I said.  “I can find the Ultimate Fishmonger, because it exists in this universe.”  In fact he didn’t meet me—he dropped Hannah and ran, possibly in some fear of heavy reprisals from a local who knows all the pubs in Mauncester‡  But at least Hannah was there.

            . . . And it’s been another beautiful day today and Hannah and I went to a National Gardens Scheme‡‡ garden as the sort of thing one does on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in spring in England, and were swarmed by daffodils and crown imperial fritilleries and alpaca, and suppressed our giggles at the extreme High Tory-ness of the owners‡‡‡ and I bought a plant.§

            We also had two gorgeous hurtles with hellhounds over hill and dale and blowing white blossom in the hedgerows and blue, blue sky and general gloriousness and joy and the sap rising in the trees and the human morale . . . and bloody Chaos is celebrating the change of season by not eating. 

* * *

* Although I have made a rod for my own back, in that April’s Visitor^ is here over a Monday and I’m taking her with me to my voice lesson.^^ 

^ I can’t remember what her blog name is, and since my dramatis personae file isn’t in any kind of alphabetical order and it’s gotten rather long over the years I can’t find it.  I could always name her again. . . . 

^^ She’s the kind of friend who makes it sound like she means it when she says, Yes!  I’d love to!  But then I specialise in insane friends.  Regular readers of this blog may have some idea why. 

** Stop laughing.  Folk songs.  I sing a lot of traditional folk songs.  I can do a handful of the obvious ones on request.  Supposing I’m singing with you in the room, which is not likely. 

*** I can say something rude here about Peter not being musical.  Peter is aggressively non-musical, although not, in fact as aggressively non-musical as he likes to pretend.  Still.  If you are going to take singing lessons and are pathological about singing in front of another human being because you genuinely don’t have much voice but (chiefly) because you are intensely neurotic, Peter is a very good person to be married to.  Sometimes fate is kind.  It was not on my list of husband requirements twenty years ago that he had to be able to put up with my singing. 

† . . . At this point I might, as an opera snob, say something about Broadway musical voices . . . but I’m not going to. 

†† Are there pubs on Saturn?  Discuss. 

††† And wondering how long it would take Wolfgang to start again once I’d turned him off.  Since our little erratic fault thingy is continuing.  Yes, I should be ringing up the mechanic and having a little discussion about the connection between the starter motor and the thing it starts, but I’ve fallen into the abyssal pit of ‘I’ll do it as soon as I get SHADOWS turned in’.  The post-SHADOWS agenda is getting a trifle long.  Headed, as it is, by doodles.  

‡ By name!  Only by name! 


‡‡‡ Hannah got nailed as an American, but I escaped by mumbling.  An immigrant with no gift for accents quickly develops an instinct for when mumbling is appropriate. 

§ Surprise.  You’re surprised, right?^ 

^ I’m waiting impatiently for my new roses.  . . . You know, seven years ago when I moved in to the cottage, I’ve told you this, right?, the previous tenant was a terribly proper gardener and the garden was full of terribly proper and high-brow plants.  And everyone said, oh, you’re going to rip everything out and plant roses, aren’t you?  And I got very huffy and said certainly not, I am only going to pull out the boring things, I like lots of plants that aren’t roses . . . But seven years later I’m aware that pretty much every time anything dies I replace it with roses. . . .+

+ No, it was not a rose I bought today, it was a lychnis.  It’s pink though.

Unnecessary excitements


So, last night, I had begun writing the blog*, and the frelling little Outlook pop-up box kept getting in my face and whining about not being connected.  Oh, shut up and cope, I snarled—I mean I murmured softly.  And then I went on line to check something—I forget what—and Internet Explorer declined to connect either.  Fie. 

            So then I went through the whole stupid exasperating tarantella** of unplugging and replugging and closing down and restarting and hanging from the ceiling singing a merry song and making dents in the plaster when you throw chairs at the wall.  ARRRRGH.  And I remained disconnected.  Hence the note from Blogmom last night that I was having Raging Technical Difficulties and would not be posting a blog.  Yes, I could write a blog off line and . . . uh . . . figure out how to send it to Blogmom and ask her to post that.  But writing a blog without internet back up is way too much like hard work.  At least when you have a sieve-like memory.***  I was thinking about this last night, while I was (fruitlessly) waiting for the mews wifi to shake itself loose from the grip of the doldrums and refrellingconnect.  My old hard copy Britannica is in Peter’s bedroom, and he’s asleep by the time I’m writing the blog . . . and the annual volumes, after Peter got cranky about the annual volumes,† now live at Third House.  This is not deeply convenient for when you’re writing a blog entry right now.  At my end of the kitchen table at the mews I have within easy reach:  the 1977 edition of the Chambers [British-English] Dictionary which is fabulous††, the Penguin thesaurus, the Oxford Compendium of English lit, Brewer’s Phrase & Fable and 100,000 Names for Baby, which is an unbelievably bad and badly edited book, but it serves the purpose of stimulating me to come up with names like Zgruban.†††   This still only gets you so far.

            So I read back issues of the London Review of Books for a while . . . and nothing happened (‘the server is not available.  If this condition persists, please contact your administrator, however, blunt instruments are not recommended and we take no responsibility for the damage you may do to your singing voice’).  So I emailed Blogmom from Pooka, telling myself that it was time I got an all-options plug-in toggle for Astarte because the keyboard on an iPhone is suitable only for flower fairy fingers . . . and went back to the cottage‡.

            Today . . . the plot thickens.  It’s only the old mews laptop that won’t go on line.‡‡  Peter’s computer goes on line fine.  Astarte goes on line.  And my little knapsack computer, brought down to the mews for evidentiary purposes, goes on line.  Waaaaaah.  I just want stuff to work and leave me alone.

            Meanwhile . . . in the first place, of course, having been glued to Pooka all morning, the moment I left her hung over the back of a chair so I could get on more freely with watering 1,000,000 potted plants‡‡‡ she started barking at me.   Hannah has landed§ and will ring me again with a rendezvous point as soon as she meets up with her driver.  I’ve said I can find anywhere in Mauncester, just tell me where.§§

            . . . She rings back:  the driver says he’s going to drop her at a pub, the Egg and Custard, on the Caerphilly Road.  The Egg and Custard? I said, under the just-proven-erroneous impression that I’d at least heard of all the pubs in Mauncester, the Caerphilly Road?

            Emphatic male quacking in the background.  Egg and Custard, confirmed Hannah.  On the Caerphilly Road.

            Okay, I said dubiously.  I can look it up.

            One frantic, husband-involving search later:  There is no Egg and Custard in Mauncester.  The nearest Egg and Custard is in . . . I don’t know, Brittany, Alsace, Hokkaido, somewhere.  Not Mauncester.  It’s a long way to Hokkaido.  Oh, and there’s no Caerphilly Road in Mauncester either.

            And the mobile phone number I have for Hannah doesn’t work. . . .  


* * *

 * And this is what I wrote (waste not, want not):


            . . . The consequent need to do housework.  Unyaay.  In fact, uuugggghhhh.

            Mostly visitors do just fine up at Third House.  Easier on everyone.  Everyone can go to bed when they want to^ and get up when they want to and make their own breakfasts (when they want to), and not only when they want to but as they want to, with no resident gremlin saying, You can’t scramble eggs in that pan!  You aren’t going to drink coffee out of that mug, are you?   There is also an extra loo at Third House for those occasions when the person in the bath falls asleep.  Third House has many advantages. 

            But there are a few people even in the life of a forty-eight-yesses-out-of-forty-six-questions-on-the-introvert-test introvert that one positively wants to have underfoot.  In my life one of them is Hannah.^^  Therefore I need to ensure that the cottage is not so frightening a habitat that she decides she has urgent and permanent business in the Azores.

            There are no mice nesting in the sofabed:  check.

            The coffee filter thingy is not wrist-deep in dust and dead beetles:  check.

            There is nothing living in the back of the refrigerator that bites:  check. 

            The cobwebs at the top of the stairwell that I can’t quite reach, even with my telescoping dustbrush at its full extent, are staying at the top of the stairwell and have not descended to become over-friendly with stairway users:  check.

            The vanguard of the outdoor jungle has not penetrated round either the door or the kitchen window frame sufficiently to be a danger to the urban unwary:  check.^^^

            The hoover hasn’t exploded, and I can still use the freller . . . sigh.  Check.^^^^           

^ Hannah, sadly, is an early riser. 

^^ I will still tell her which pan to scramble eggs in however.  But she’s allowed to use any mug.  Probably.  I can’t be sure till I catch her using the wrong one. 

^^^ This becomes more of a problem later in the season. 

^^^^ I haaaaaaaate vacuuming.  HAAAAAAAAAAATE

** Spiders have a lot in common with computers when you stop to think about it.  They both have too many legs (material or immaterial), a bad attitude (graphic), and a ghastly habit of rushing at you (literal or metaphoric) when you’re not expecting trouble.  But really you can tell they don’t have your best interests at heart the moment you set eyes on one.  

*** This would be a sieve that has also been used for target practise by the local rifle club. 

† Which is cheek, you know, since he married me for my Britannica.  I’ve told you this joke, haven’t I?  He married me—twenty years ago, remember, before the internet was a resource for commoners and the technically challenged—for my Britannica.  I married him for his membership in the London Library.  Peter has dropped his membership in the library—which means I’m groaning under the extreme subscription price by myself—I haven’t pulled a Britannica volume off the shelf in years . . . and the annual volumes are accumulating at Third House.  

†† It and the old American Heritage Dictionary of 1969 are my favourite dictionaries.^  The OED is . . . second.  It’s a very good second, but it’s still second.  And neither the new Chambers nor the new American Heritage is a patch on the classics. 

^ The poor old AHD is in fairly rough shape as I spent several years sitting on it.  I wrote HERO sitting on my old AHD.  I’ve never had a proper desk with a proper desk chair, which means height adjustments must be made.  The AHD was the perfect extra thickness for that particular chair, and conveniently butt-breadth.  

††† And rather a lot of books on knitting and learning Japanese. 

‡ Where, yes, I can get on line, but that’s not where I spend my evenings. 

‡‡ It really wants to retire.  Really really really. 

‡‡‡ We’re going to have a hosepipe ban any minute:  driest March in meteorologically recorded history, I think.  Just so long as they don’t have a madperson-carrying-a-gazillion-cans ban. 

§ . . . at the right airport.  In England. 

§§ I should know better than to say things like this. 

§§§ Hey.  You already know I’m a cow.  And I’m a cow who needs to go to bed early because Hannah does^ AND BECAUSE THE SODBLASTED CLOCKS GO FORWARD TONIGHT. 

^ Yes.  She’s here.  You can relax.

No post tonight

Robin is having connection problems.

Here is a little something to tide you over.  Young serviceberry against a background of Miscanthus x giganteus stems.  With a little help from Photoshop.

This Miscanthus is from the stock grown in biomass experiments at the University of Illinois where many acres of it have been established. Interesting reading:  Growing Giant Miscanthus in Illinois

Caveats and clarifications


Ravenel is leaving the Muddlehampton Choir (in the lurch)!*

            He’s retired, for pity’s sake, but like a lot of other old people who are only old chronologically**, he’s a consultant, and they love him in Bandar Seri Begawan.  He’s been out there several times and that was supposed to be the end of his contract—but they’ve just offered him a longer-term one and he’s TAKING it, the ratbag.

            I was all ready to be devastated . . . and then he started us on a new song*** last thing tonight which is so unutterably loathsome I found myself unable to pry my tongue from the roof of my mouth and sing it.  Arrgh.  People have frelling quit choirs for less.  (It’s supposed to be funny.  It isn’t.  And the music is BORING.)  So maybe I’ll like having Ravenel in Bandar Seri Begawan better than I expected.  Meanwhile . . . the post of director/conductor is open† and to some extent the structure of the choir with it.  NOW IS THE TIME FOR OISIN TO START THE NEW ARCADIA SINGERS.  AND WE WILL SING NO LOATHSOME SONGS.†† 

* * *

 The problem with writing the blog on fumes is that you tend not to say what you mean to say, or you leave stuff out, or you fail to express yourself clearly enough, or you don’t make all the caveats you should make.  Caveat number one:  I know I’ve said much of what I said last night before.  But the doodles remain undone, and I owe you an update occasionally.  Blogmom also needs to be able to say something useful to understandably plaintive non-blog-readers about what’s going on.  


Well, I am the one who originally suggested 2017 as a possible mailing date for the doodles, 

Yes, I remember you ’17ers.  I like you a lot.  

and I’m sticking to that, so by my count, you’ve got five and a half years (if we’re counting to the Christmas season in 2017, so that we can, if we desire, give doodles as gifts. To ourselves.). 

I’m also a strong believer in self-selected gifts.  Who needs surprise when you can have exactly what you want?††† 

And I am quite looking forward to Shadows, and am glad that it’s taking the time that the doodles would take. The motto I’ve been trying to live by recently is: there are always important things I’m neglecting in favor of the important things I’m doing, but that doesn’t mean what I’m doing is wrong. 

Yes.  I’m with you all the way on this one.  Prioritizing, and all those clever punchy annoying business-speak words, only work so far.  We’re still waiting for our thirty-six hour day.  With the brain stamina to go with it.‡ 


Robin, stop whacking yourself over the head. 

Huh?  Um.  How am I whacking myself over the head?  I’m fairly cranky at fate, but then I am often cranky at fate.  And I might have handled last year better, but that would mean going back to about this time last year and realising expeditiously that PEG II had a serious and insoluble from the then-current approach problem,‡‡ and when one’s critical errors start fading into the mists of time . . . maybe it’s just my short attention span, but I’m much more interested in coping with now.  And it’s more what catlady said:  I may be screwing up, but that doesn’t mean what I am doing is wrong.  I’ve prioritised:  SHADOWS must come first.  This isn’t getting the doodles done.  And I’m sorry about that—as I should be.  That’s not whacking myself over the head.  That’s being fate’s hellhounds’ chew-toy. 

We’re here because we like and admire you. 

Thank you!  But some of the people who ordered books and doodles last autumn just wanted their merchandise.

Personally, I’m sorry for your sake that Shadows is taking longer than you wanted, but I’d much rather have quality McKinley than earlier McKinley.  

Well, so would I . . . but it’s also not really my choice.  The Story is the Story, as I keep saying.  I can only do what it lets me do.  And if it doesn’t like the quality of the blood flow it’ll make me find another vein.  Ow.  


As for the doodles, well, I’ve forgotten I sent off the money now, so it will feel like I’m getting a free amazing gift from the universe whenever it does arrive.  

I love this.‡‡‡  

* * *

* jmeadows

She doesn’t knit because nothing happens fast enough? Hee. Someone is clearly not a process knitter. I like the way knitting feels! I’m perfectly happy to wait for something to happen. (Though I don’t like waiting TOO long. I’m not made of patience, you know.)

 This would be me too.   Especially given that I’m still doing the knitting equivalent of moving my lips when I read, if I were into product I would be in big trouble.  Certainly at my level—squares, and Very Basic Ribbing, knitting is meditative, and I can use all the calming options I can get.  And wasting time winds me up something vicious, so it serves a dual purpose:  the knitting itself is soothing, and the not wasting time is sort of soothing-plus.  And I was casting off The World’s Longest Leg Warmer during break tonight.  Because I’m not made of patience either^ and I would like to wear these things, that’s things, plural, as in TWO of them, next winter. . . . 

^ Shock horror.  Film at eleven. 

**  . . . Ahem. 

*** Remember I said that nobody knows the playlist for the summer concert? 

†Nice young Japheth is going to a new job inYorkshire or somewhere equally extreme at the end of the year, so he’s not a candidate.  But we may have him through the summer concert if Ravenel slopes off early. 

†† I will be sure to be on the board, and the first rule we will pass is that all items on the musical programme must be okayed by the board.

^ The Muddles are looking for more board members . . . NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.+ 

+ Not unless we can pass this one little new rule. . . .  

††† And some people want vampire muffins.

 ‡ Last night as I lay sleepless in my icy cold bed^ I was thinking about kinds of energy:  creative, which overlaps with but is not the same as intellectual;  emotional, which also overlaps with and adds resonance to creative, but is definitely not the same as, and which is in a constant running fire-fight with intellectual which is inconvenient, wasteful and stupid;  and physical energy, which is a crucial support for all the rest, as well as necessary for hurtling, gardening, and singing exercises at your computer.^^  I no longer remember what it’s like to be juggling all this as a normal, un-ME’d^^^ person, but with ME you also have the spoons issue.^^^^  Different kinds of energy also demand different numbers of spoons.  And I’m terrible at maths. 

 ^ My electric blanket went phut the moment the temperature dropped back to gelid again.  Thanks so much.  Maybe there will be a nice sale on electric blankets in April. 

^^ There’s at least one more but I’m not sure what to call it.  Moral energy, possibly, which is a kind of immaterial resilience or fortitude. 

^^^ And possibly younger.  Something else I’ve said here before, I’d rather blame the ME for being stupid and feeble, than just that I’m getting old.  


This link is also in the ‘about’ section of this blog.  I have a very mild case, as ME—and lupus, and fibro, and a lot of other auto-immune things that lead with tiredness and pain and general offness—goes.  

‡‡ And, you know, there’s a first time for everything.  I could do expeditious one of these years.  I could.  

‡‡ This is also the argument for, for example, pre-ordering books.   You can forget they’re coming.  And then . . . what’s nicer than a desirable new book to read??

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