Ah, fretmarketeers. Spring is here. Mabel's sitting in her bath, cooling her boots, with a crop full of prime quail. I'm gardening — gardening! — pulling long worms of white bindweed roots from the loam of my new flowerbeds, in a little, sunny break from work. Lots of it. Bindweed and work, both. Teaching, proofreading, working on illustrations for a book (not mine), and in between, writing the goshawk book. Still fretting about a title (suggestions welcome) but am astonished to discover that I've already (if you count blog posts and my lackadaisical diary) 40,000 words or so. Now I just have to write the clever bits.
Cambridge is beautiful in this weather. It's hard, this spring, though. For some reason the change in season has made me miss my father, suddenly, very much indeed. I'm broke, too, which is a bit tricky; my stock of Mabel-caught quarry has disappeared from the freezer, and I've raided all the jars of small coins already. But there are good things coming. My brother and his long term partner are getting married on Midsummer's Day, which is just thrilling and wonderful. I am so happy for them, I could burst. I'm doing the goshawk talks on the radio. And in July, my mother and I are off on a ship to Svalbard, via northern Norway, to witness a total eclipse. I shall be Ahabing from deck, trying to see white whales. Belugas are one of my special animals, and the thought of seeing them spy-hopping and carolling in arctic waters is like the feeling of Christmas coming for a five-year old. Crossing my fingers. Beep!
Back to book-writing and essay-marking....
2 comments:
"Fretmarks" has a nice ring to it. :-)
I get depressed in the spring. Just noticed it a few years ago.
We'll be okay.
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