This does not make me want to sit at my computer writing thousands of words, it makes me want to sit on the bed with some knitting, or a book, or at the table building dinosaurs (long story), or at the counter with a spatula and apron on (although after last night's marmalade and chutney exploits I did have my doubts about wanting to enter the kitchen at all for a little while. Fortunately the mess wasn't as bad as I thought, and the floor only a little sticky when I got up this morning...)
Sniff's got the right idea. He's spent the day moving from his radiator bed, to the sofa, back to the bed, outside to chase off another cat, hastily returning to guard the sofa once more.
I want to be doing that. I want to be making labels for my chutney, knitting rows for N's scarf, which came on leaps and bounds over the weekend, but has stalled since. I want to be churning out batches of warming lemony cake to bring some sunshine.
But no, I shall be mostly writing about the apocalypse.
How apt.
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