(no subject)
The first cold spell always feels colder than it is. What would have been 'thank you, God' weather a month ago (high 18, low 13 ie mid 60s, mid 50sF) is 'can I turn the heat on?' now. Shall get used to it. But I've had to adjust my reflexes: for three months I've walked on the shady side of the street and now I must seek the sun.
The other thing Gladys Mitchell does is flora porn, but I rarely notice it because almost all English writers do. Those weedy things that grow in ditches get lovingly named and itemized: loosestrife, vetch, cow parsley, columbine, ragged robin, viper's bugloss, field scabious (some very unfortunate names there), bellflower, cowslip, foxglove, and the snake's head fritillary. Makes a city child's head spin.
Weighed myself again, first time in weeks. I'm maintaining in spite of riotous indulgence in alcohol and pastry. Which means I am indeed getting enough exercise with my walking. And if I cut the empty calories I will lose. But though empty, those calories are necessary, either psychologically (cake) or physically (alcohol.) There must be some way around this but I can't think what.
Petronia said she was going to watch the Queen's funeral on YouTube, which I didn't because I was too stoned to do much of anything earlier in the week. But I somehow wandered into excerpts last night, because Mitchell mentioned The Flowers of the Forest, a Scots song that somehow escaped my notice in my Scottish music buying days fifty years ago, which turns out to be what gets played at royal funerals. And somehow from there got into clips of the ending of Return of the King which I will never watch in its entirety, not only because of Jackson's ham-handed mangling of the text but because I really can't stand the greasy hair on all the male humans. Hobbits don't have greasy hair. Women don't have greasy hair. But the men of Gondor and Rohan have never heard of shampoo. This bugs me far more than it should. Anyway, had a little weep over Bilbo and Frodo leaving Middle Earth, and then went to bed.
The other thing Gladys Mitchell does is flora porn, but I rarely notice it because almost all English writers do. Those weedy things that grow in ditches get lovingly named and itemized: loosestrife, vetch, cow parsley, columbine, ragged robin, viper's bugloss, field scabious (some very unfortunate names there), bellflower, cowslip, foxglove, and the snake's head fritillary. Makes a city child's head spin.
Weighed myself again, first time in weeks. I'm maintaining in spite of riotous indulgence in alcohol and pastry. Which means I am indeed getting enough exercise with my walking. And if I cut the empty calories I will lose. But though empty, those calories are necessary, either psychologically (cake) or physically (alcohol.) There must be some way around this but I can't think what.
Petronia said she was going to watch the Queen's funeral on YouTube, which I didn't because I was too stoned to do much of anything earlier in the week. But I somehow wandered into excerpts last night, because Mitchell mentioned The Flowers of the Forest, a Scots song that somehow escaped my notice in my Scottish music buying days fifty years ago, which turns out to be what gets played at royal funerals. And somehow from there got into clips of the ending of Return of the King which I will never watch in its entirety, not only because of Jackson's ham-handed mangling of the text but because I really can't stand the greasy hair on all the male humans. Hobbits don't have greasy hair. Women don't have greasy hair. But the men of Gondor and Rohan have never heard of shampoo. This bugs me far more than it should. Anyway, had a little weep over Bilbo and Frodo leaving Middle Earth, and then went to bed.