Goat Notes

They don't always get on with one, as I am occasionally reminded.  On a medicine now that will hopefully pacify them.  I see much bland eating and even plainer drinking ahead for... some time.  I suppose small frequent meals does mean more variety, which is spice of a sort.

I slept reasonably last night for the first time in a while, which is probably why I didn't wake up fresh from the memory of roping James Stewart, Cyndi Lauper, Nicholas Nickleby and Campaspe into an amateur Anglesey production of You Won't Believe It!, the smash-hit musical based on The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant.

Yet.

Killer-Kate and Luke Lackland: 410 words of critically urgent instant diplomacy, and Elegant Elder Sister, who is not the sort of person who speaks much of 'guts' at all, nonetheless turns out to have even more of them than I thought.

Oh, wotta night!  But Nox ain't been no lady...

Indigestion first - which I seldom get these days, but does the job all right when it turns up.   Okay, thought I: make lemonade from the sour things.  Found G K Chesterton's The Club of Queer Trades on LibriVox, lay awake listening to the first couple of chapters from it.  All hail LibriVox!  Gut stops trying to strangle me.  Ready to sleep.  Kipped.

Woke half an hour later.  The flickering through my window suggested that next door's kitchen was on fire.  Stumbled to investigate.  Very large and bright fluorescent, doing hammy and protracted death scene.  Cursed.  Now too keyed-up to sleep.  Chesterton again.  Another chapter.  Kipped.

Cop 'copter decided to spend the second hour of the morning waking up the neighbourhood by repeatedly buzzing it.  Not one of their worst efforts, but evil sufficient unto the night.  Cursed, etc.

Woke at five.  Time to write, eat a careful tea and toast, and shamble off to work.  To my great surprise, managed 410 decent words to add to yesterday's 420.  Porridge and dangly wizard sleeves don't mix; a new insight into Kateverse magic; trod unexpectedly on one of protag's trauma mines, and think it played out well.  400 words - about a close-typed page - is generally a good cruising speed for me, when I'm not in full binge mode.  On course to finish chapter by Whitsun, if I can keep this up.

Yeah, I feel like the cat's pyjamas!   Specifically,  the old set the moggy has appropriated for its comfort blanket in time of sickness, and will never find its ownership challenged again...