Sunday, November 13, 2016

Sundays are for jazzin'

Well, here I am, Sunday afternoon, sat in front of the fire. Jazz is playing quietly in the background, on whatever Spotify playlist Wolf chose before he left to catch up with his friend, and I'm meant to be editing this book except I keep getting distracted. I make it through a few pages, and then I can't resist flicking through my open Chrome tabs, full of little (1)s and (2)s to let me know I'm missing stuff. So much is happening! Who can resist that bouncing baby fox? Adorable Joe Biden? Spirited fights over the electoral college? What an exciting place social media is right now. I don't know if any of us will survive it. And then there are the group chats to peek into: is Jess having more birthday crepes in France? Is Amber having a successful time meeting her boyfriend's family? These are all things I HAVE to know, and no attack on the Hexamilion Wall is going to keep me from checking in. Which is surprising, because the battle scenes in this book are thrilling, especially since the author, through devilish sleight of hand, has stirred up sympathy for both camps.

Where'd I put my water . . . it keeps moving around on me. Hmmm . . . maybe that's the problem. Maybe I need to move up to something stronger, like a nice big cuppa red tea. You can't sit on a rug in front of a fire listening to jazz with only two hydrogens and one oxygen. It's nonsense.

Speaking of, I need more logs for the stove. When is Wolf getting home? I suppose I could get them myself except they're covered in spiders and that's just not what I'm into. One came crawling out of the kindling half an hour ago and headed straight for my knee, an assault I bravely fought off by grabbing an iron fireplace tool and whacking at the floor until I had dented the wood nicely. The spider made a clean escape, which shows I haven't learned a bit of battle strategy from this book, not even from the Turks, who seem to approach things a bit heavy-handed.

So yesterday I went with a couple of girlfriends to see Abstract Expressionism at the RA and this quote at the entrance to the exhibit made me laugh:


Clyff's paintings - I feel like we're on a first-name basis, like Jackson and I - I'll confess were my favourite. We all agreed that looking at his work generated a visceral response not dissimilar to ASMR, and we circled the room for ages, letting his slashes of red or white or black or teal scritch-scratch away at our brains. 

It was no small wonder the afternoon slid away as it did; we were all doped up.


Okay, I must get back to the business at hand. I'm pretty sure somewhere someone has posted a picture of an unbearably cuddly pup and I cannot stand to miss it. 

Big hugs and lots of love,

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