The Stars and the Cookie Jar

But then, it's your life...

After all the false starts, I seem to have found the way I want to be going.

Thassall, really.

We're supposed to be taking the author picture for my book today while there's decent sunlight; I intend to squander the rest of the roll of film on Cole.

Um, and if you ever acquire a second-degree scald somewhere, I suggest you do not do it on your tummy. I'm running out of pants without buttons! And ow, and ew. It's all right though, I mean, in the sense that it could have been much worse, and in the sense that I'm not in Kuala Lumpur or Dubai and can take proper care of it with proper first-aid thingums from CVS.

And I only have two more hours or so with Cole. After that, five weeks. I don't know how that's going to work, except that it has to. Somehow.

I'm going to be intolerable and capricious, and throw myself into my writing with a Woolf-like zeal, only mine will be legible a bit, and I will not put rocks in my pockets, so to speak.

Why did the MOS not have an exhibition catalogue for LOTR? Why why why? It's ours, my precious, and we wants it!

Oh, and admire the new icon. It's a seal pup. A baby selkie. Yes it is. Lookit me cackle demonically, awww, yes.
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I WAH JUS.

My book is going on sale at www.shocklines.com in a couple of DAYS.

I'm still quite dejected, sitting here; I went to the Old Grist Mill on a Monday night and did not get petite prime rib, for Chrissakes. We slurped broth -- admittedly superlative broth -- and munched greens morosely and I didn't have the heart even to oogle some other table's beef.
The swans tried to kill me, unrelatedly. One of them managed to untie the lace of my trainer. We ran away. The leftover breadroll from dinner did not, alas, survive.

I miss my girl. I cried in the airport at the TSA gates, and I cried on the kerb with the wind drying my face.
I am a large, slightly scalded sack of pathetic, yes.

But, anyway. Pictures later tonight, as soon as she gets off the plane in Far, Far Away.