I have been leading an exciting life in my dreams this week, if not in reality. On Tuesday night I went to Australia, and then (by crossing a perfectly ordinary bridge) to New Zealand, where all the houses were pink. On Wednesday night I went to visit phlebas, although I can't remember what we did when I got there. Last night wasn't so fun, though, because I fell down a muddy hole higher than my head, and woke myself up trying to shout for someone to come and rescue me.
Tonight (in real life) I have been updating the list of all the maps I own, so that I can try to figure out what to buy in Black's sale.
1527.7 miles for the year, spurious accuracy notwithstanding. 297 fiddle days, for which I am Blaming The Tories.
Not much of anything else. Too much December.
Miles walked: 126.3 Fiddle days: 25/25 Concerts seen: Does the end of term Stramash count? Blog posts made: None. I haven't exactly written nothing, but no whole ones! AoS books read: A not quite AoS one about Hooke and Halley Decent walks gone on: A morning wander to the Nymphenburg palace, two days on the Yorkshire coast. Otherwise mostly a lot of prowling around. Walk reports written: None
Not the most successful month. I think this is the first time since I started counting that I haven't walked 100 miles in a month - for which the Coughing Bug is thoroughly to blame, but it's still displeasing. And despite it being picowrimo month, I still seemed to achieve more knitting than writing...
The problem with the idea of starting the year as you mean to go on is that you generally start it by staying up too late and drinking too much. Getting argumentative at 3am is less obligatory, but I still managed it.
I have been reading a book about Robert Hooke, who never really stopped working, but did reserve New Year's Day for the work of looking back at the past year and planning the year ahead. This is a nice idea, but I'm still stuck on figuring out what to do with the last days of the holidays.
I've been meaning to make a Proper Post all month, but December is December, and...
This is not it.
This morning I was sitting on the beach in the sunshine eating ice cream - Scarborough beach, with my coat on, but it was still quite lovely. I'm now eating shortbread (a proper hogmanay food) in Newcastle, due to being booked on a train that doesn't exist and having to wait for the next one. I am philosophical about this as long as I am over the border before midnight, which shouldn't be too difficult...
My dad is supposed to be recording his fluid intake, but is finding this difficult - because although he makes himself a whole cup of tea, he might, he reports, only drink two half-mouthfuls of it, and he doesn't know how to write this down.