I made it all the way around the walk without needing my puffer this morning!
Alas, however I carry my brolly, it's going to hurt my wrist. Carrying it under my elbow actually hurts more because I have to wrap my arm around it for stability. I may have to make that scabbard, after all.
I'll look very silly, but at least my joints won't ache.
It's humid, this morning, and I'm feeling the heat. Air conditioning would be marvellous, but I can't have what I can't afford. Le sigh.
All I want for Christmas is a climate-controlled office.
Good news - Beloved and I finished wrapping the gift baskets in cellophane.
Bad news - the wobbly fancy-edge scissors I was planning to use have vanished from their cunning hiding place of "in plain sight, right next to my planned work area". Without a trace.
I suspect Chaos has acted according to her online nickname and put them "somewhere safe". And then forgotten where she left them.
I call my little darlings 'Chaos' and 'Mayhem' for reasons that quickly become obvious, the more shenanigans you get to witness. I rename everyone for safety purposes. I know I already have one invasive creep reading this blog, so I protect the innocent and the guilty alike.
Yours truly included.
The hardest part about Christmas is deliberately not writing anything. I'm a compulsive writer. I have to add words to something, even if it's a fanfic. Doing a daily dose of pro words has got me well into the habit of writing something. It's like a mental itch combined with obsessive guilt.
You watch. I'll put at least one sentence in somewhere. And seasons' greetings to this blog don't count.