Writing: I sit with these words in my head and try not to think about them, but only of them:
Meat, shoes, fat girl, rum, chopped limes, summer, sex, cigar, money, hair-grease, teeth.
Now I'm going to try and weave it all together. God, this is a strange way to spend your days. Things are finally easing off on the other-work front, so I should be getting back into some solid writing. Only, the more time stretches ahead, the more I tend to fidget. Enough, I'm being strict today. And kind.
In other news - now I've got a little breathing space I'm taking time to rediscover the very small things that I take pleasure in. For one thing - a good cup of tea. My tea making ritual changes, but I've always loved the elements. There's something about making oneself a cup of tea that seems like the ultimate pleasure. I just found Darjeeling is my new favourite, light and sweet and good. I have a favourite cup - (bone china, natch). A carved wooden Indian tray. Sugar bowl, the nice spoon with the thin neck that I um, borrowed from a cafe because I loved it so much. Freshly drawn water, a slowly steeped bag.
A cup that warms the hands. Steam rising. Sip.