… I mean in the air, and in my lungs, too. When not pathetically curled up in bed with Bronte novels on the iPad (well, Jane Eyre, at any rate, not Wuthering Heights; I remember finding Heathcliff a bit tiresome, although I may give him another try since it’s been so long), all my illin’ energy is going into making things for two up-racing deadlines, and so I’ve slacked off on writing in this space.
Here’s a deceptively placid photo of Christmas lights under frost cloth around the pool (in reality, the chilly desert wind is howling outside and we had to weight the flapping cloths down with rocks and empty flower pots). It’s our attempt at keeping the poor little cax and sux warm: our trees are being trimmed tomorrow — scheduled before we knew sub-freezing temps were forecast for the remainder of the week — and so the plants and pots had to come out into the open to avoid being crushed by amputated limbs. Thank heavens for old-school C9s, right?