The Little Cat. It's getting a tad stir crazy, it is. But it's purring. More importantly, after this morning's bad experience with a long claw caught in the bedclothes, it's allowed me to give it a pedicure and even permitted the claws on its baldy paw to be trimmed. This also gave me the chance to check how many stitches have been removed--and the answer is, only the one. Good cat.
Our joint fashion tip: the toy poodle shave is definitely best left to the toy poodle.
And there's progress, tho' too slow. We have no rubble out the front and salvaged bricks out the back. There is a partition roughly halfway across the living room (with a door giving access to the wreck at the front), which is keeping the noise down and the dirt out. There are down pipes from the gutters outside. The cleaners come on Wednesday. Which is when two lots of builders are coming to do quotes (the ones I already regard as my favourites are coming tomorrow and have already rung up asking preparatory questions), and when Little goes back to the vet for stitch removal.
Nice things: Looby Loo came home with a certificate for listening especially well; I've acquired a £5 Amazon voucher; I got my Michel Houellebecq on H P Lovecraft book today; and smelly stuff courtesy of BPAL and eBay: Pink Moon (may go to LL), Honey Moon (Mmmm, Bzzzz, spice?), and testers of Mata Hari (nice) and R'lyeh (neat). I'm wearing both Mata Hari and R'lyeh, which is more of a plot idea than a recommended scent combination.
Annoying things: builders (whom I don't want to get the contract for the rest of the work, tho' they clearly expect to); encountering the word "intercity" in one of the Bletchley in WWII sections of Cryptonomicon where it jarred as too modern a term (tho' I must check this out) for the setting. It's broken the magic, and I was enjoying the book greatly, and I'm not sure if I'll carry on. It took a good twelve months to make myself forgive Alastair Reynolds for the misuse of "crescendo" on the first page of whichever of his books it was I've read--Revelation Space?--and actually buy it. It was still necessary to take a deep breath and hold it through the first page before being able to enjoy the rest of the read.
So no chance of ruining my eyesight staring at the lunar eclipse.
Still, we did see a heron flying riverwards this morning (right over the field where I thought I saw one standing a couple of weeks ago); I'll know to look out in the mornings, now, since they do tend to have very regular habits.
I'd watch one from the bus stop on my way to school. After the mine closed and Black Beck stopped flowing the red of a tin of Heinz cream of tomato soup, the heron took to fishing every morning just above upstream of bridge where Black Beck and Kirk Beck meet. The passing traffic and the noise of the crowd of kids at the bus stop across the way didn't seem to be a disturbance (the ducks always seemed oblivious too): the heron would stand motionless surrounded by its own ball of silence. Stasis. Tension. Then the single jab with the beak.
The flight of the heron into the village in the morning, and the flight of another I watched regularly across the back field in the evening (just before the barn owl flew by), was such a contrast to this archer-like tension and release. It was all lazy flapping with broad wings, curved ends drooping slightly, the subtle knife of its breastbone slipping through the air.
Well, Bluebeard seems to stimulate the brain. Didn't like it when I opened the bottle: too much violet (which just isn't a smell I particularly like) but after an hour I'm still surrounded by white musk (an old, old favourite, which I used to wear continuously as a single note) and vetiver. Very little lavender, except when I rub my wrists together--when a tiny bit of violet returns too, but not unpleasantly.