In which luncheon is taken later than one might desire
The little fuzzbugs did it again overnight, that oh-so-clever trick with the binliner. I have explained to them - more than once, I swear it! - the difference between funny-once and funny-always, but they wilfully don't get it; they just look at me and giggle, catwise (we are srs cats, but our whiskers twitch: what a giveaway!), and then run off to plot evil in corners. Separate corners, generally, for twice the evil.
Meantime, the best thing about the Lit & Phil - and I may have explained this too, but hey - is that I can be there twenty minutes, and I've drunk half my coffee and written half a page and it's clearly just not happening today, and I'm thinking I'll just get to the bottom of the page and give up, get out of there; and if I'd been home I would have flicked over to the e-mail and then to LJ and time would have passed and a page would have been my portion for the morning. But I can't do those distracting things in the Lit & Phil, there is nothing but the work; so I grind onward, and then something bites and forty minutes later I'm chewing on the coffee-grounds with fifteen hundred words behind me. Yay.
The worst thing about the Lit & Phil? Is coming home. Because that means via the shops, and I must spend money. On books today that I may in fact have already (but, hey, £2 each? Bargain. And I may not have them, y'know?) and fancy bread-flours when indeed I already have flours for making bread. Just, not this fancy. So...
And it's nearly three o'clock and I'm hungry now...
Meantime, the best thing about the Lit & Phil - and I may have explained this too, but hey - is that I can be there twenty minutes, and I've drunk half my coffee and written half a page and it's clearly just not happening today, and I'm thinking I'll just get to the bottom of the page and give up, get out of there; and if I'd been home I would have flicked over to the e-mail and then to LJ and time would have passed and a page would have been my portion for the morning. But I can't do those distracting things in the Lit & Phil, there is nothing but the work; so I grind onward, and then something bites and forty minutes later I'm chewing on the coffee-grounds with fifteen hundred words behind me. Yay.
The worst thing about the Lit & Phil? Is coming home. Because that means via the shops, and I must spend money. On books today that I may in fact have already (but, hey, £2 each? Bargain. And I may not have them, y'know?) and fancy bread-flours when indeed I already have flours for making bread. Just, not this fancy. So...
And it's nearly three o'clock and I'm hungry now...