Edinburgh winters. I've been trying to write fiction, trying to not drink, trying to get to sleep at reasonable hours. The term started. Writing is a struggle, not drinking is a struggle, sleeping is a struggle. Sanity is slipping sideways, so I'm trying to keep a handle on that. The sun doesn't come out, and the winds are so extreme that people are being killed by flying debris. It is very Mary Poppins here, very very Mary Poppins. Tom Waits helps some, jazzy Tom Waits, late 70's Tom Waits. The piano has been drinking, not me.
I know it's too early to resign myself to life as a spinster, and yet.
The term is keeping me very busy, and extra time goes to writing stories, and that is my excuse if there is nothing of worth here. Mainly I'm grateful I haven't begun hibernating, despite my natural inclinations.
The carpet needs a haircut.
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