Plus it's raining. And it's nearly my birthday. And I haven't had nearly enough chocolate, so I'm crabby and out of sorts, and probably the last thing you need to listen to is a writer who's chocolate-deprived, writing very hard and, with one fatal swoop of the calendar, is about to turn another year older and watch yet another portion of her face fall off, or at the very least sink into wrinkles. It's like watching a plum in time-lapse photography; one moment all shiny and bearing the bloom of perfect ripeness, the next it's a prune-in-waiting, with a slight tinge of mould and suddenly very attractive to flies.
I shall petition to be like the Queen, and have a second birthday in June. That way I might get some summery things for my birthday. No-one ever thinks, early in November, as they shop for my birthday, 'Do you know, what I think Jane needs is some nice sunglasses?' even if I do. They look at the goods available in the shops and they buy me gloves and hats and scarves. Which, of course, are much appreciated, obviously, because I have all the thermoregulation ability of a rock and am permanently cold, even when sitting inside the fireplace with a large fire burning but. You know. Principle of the Thing, especially when the people concerned then do it again for Christmas.
|These are cute, don't you think? Not that I'm hinting or anything, just...you know, saying.|
|Please, someone, admit I have a point here...|
Whereas I, on the other hand, once gave a flannel as a gift, so am probably not best placed to remark on the Suitability of Presents...
And now, having planted that little seed in your mind, I shall take myself off and do something useful like writing. Or, more probably, panic-buying of Christmas presents. I mean, FOUR WEEKS ON TUESDAY, PEOPLE! Let's see some ACTION!
This blog post is dedicated to the memory of our little Maggie-cat, who passed away on Thursday and is, even now, stalking her way through cat-heaven, terrorising the voles and eating all the sardines.