I am reminded of Shel Silverstein–some kind of help is the kind of help that helping’s all about, and then there’s this.
Now, exhausted by her efforts, Miss B’s cast herself onto the office floor next to a snoring Trundles (who has decided my bed is too warm and too soft, Goldilocks) and is eyeing me warily, in case I decide to Do Something Else She Needs To Help With.
At least all the sweaty stuff is done and I won’t have to venture into the heat until after dinner for Odd’s Daily Constitutional. He hates warm weather, and reproaches me about it almost as much as he complains about rain. It’s not really his fault–he’s a walking yeast factory, and with his compromised airways hot days mean he can’t breathe as well. Pretty soon he’ll move out of my office and into the hall, where he’ll find cool spots on the hardwood and move every ten minutes or so, groaning all the while.
That’s all the news from this morning, other than me trying to decide which project goes where in the next six months. I have a list, but I want to depart from it, and I have to find time to write another novella. That was fun, and it makes sense for me to broaden my genres, so to speak.
Maybe a cuppa while I ponder everything, since there’s a nice breeze through the window and it’ll be too hot come afternoon. And before you ask, no, I abhor iced tea and iced coffee. Call it a quirk.
Over and out.