Spent a fine and chappish weekend in Brighton doing stag things, where I was Not Good at both raft-building and croquet. The latter was not assisted by the state of the pitch, which was dry and ungrassy and too fast.
I'd expected much teasing on this expertise yesterday, as I detailed my adventures to the Doctor - she after all calls me 'Shire boy' at the best of times. But I'm assured me she's quite the croquist (if that's not the word, it should be). It's an elementary skill of the vicar's daughter, I guess - along with topping up drinks and making canapes. She is a good wife, and I have made sacrifice of household chores today in her honour.
Caught the sun quite nicely, too: there's a satisfying, high contrast arc of white on the fleshy bit between my thumbs and forefingers.
I'm just 100 pages from the end of Harry Potter, having fallen into it by accident last night. Best one since Azkaban, I think - tighter written, better plotted and generally just funnier and scarier by turns... I love the feeling of haring through a book because you can't put it down, while at the same time not wanting it ever to end. The heading for this post, incidentally, is from page 187.
Good things happening on my own writing front, too. An email today confirmed things are all go on.... something exciting that will be announced in due course. And, on the train down to Brighton while chatting to a chum, the line, 'Well, I saw a light on...' popped into my brain unbidden. Not the most awe-inspriring revelation, I know, but it perfectly clears up all the bother I'd been having with something I'm working on, so yay. Explained what it's for to the Doctor last night as we meandered to last orders up the road. When it got to that line, she laughed. So that's all okay then.
Well, anyway. This isn't working, is it?
And nor would be sneaking off now for another chapter of Potter. But...