This morning I woke up to find the house so cold I had to turn the heat on. It’s practically August. This weather is wrong. So wrong it’s rong.
This weather is fucking with Hild. Well, okay, not Hild but my inability to get Hild right while smiling benevolently. Normally, when I reach a particularly knotty bit of rewrite, I like to take a break and sit outside with a cup of tea. I unhook my mind from specifics and let my writer brain find the way while the wind riffles through the trees and birds sing. Usually all it takes is the time to drink one cup of tea. Not this week. This week our perbs have been mashed flat by torrential rain, the neighbour’s curly willow fell on another neighbour’s house and then we got a blast of sunshine that shrivelled the perbs that hadn’t been mashed.
On the one day it wasn’t either pouring or blast-furnace hot, some little dot of a dog ran about the neighbourhood shrieking in falsetto.
I am suffering. Hild is suffering.
Kelley isn’t suffering. Kelley just rolls her eyes and says, “You’re getting peevish. Go eat something.” So now our pantry and fridge look ravaged by an invading army. And I’m getting hungry. Again.
Fortunately next week’s weather looks dysapocalyptic: a steady marine layer ensuring cloud in the morning which should burn off to just-right sunshine by afternoon. We’re all grateful.