Commencing work this morning with a dog who says the floor is much, much, much too cold, and can't you please turn on the summer, monkey?
Tea today is a nice Assam from Upton (Mokalbari East); teacup today is an autumnul Chinese cup with leaves and berries and cherry blossoms.
Temperature this morning: 24 degrees.
Apparently, les smice have been eating my pie overnight:
I did not know that les smice used forks, however.
Not actually sure what work is getting done today--I think I'm going to go poke at Grail and see what happens. Having a third of it drafted is very reassuring: the end seems so much more attainable from here than from zero: I mean, 250 pages is little enough room that I start worrying about running out of space rather than how on earth am I going to fill this with interesting narrative?
And in conclusion, a dog loves you.