Draftiness.

I'm going to start thinking words like "drafting" to myself, quietly and calmly, so that when Monday dawns clear and cold, I won't want to burrow down under my quilts and blankets and duvet and pretend that all of my notes and my ideas aren't sitting on the desk across the room by the window. Only, I might want to burrow down simply because some nights, they seem to turn the heat down or off, and sometimes it's not quite fully warm again by the time I wake up. There's never any telling when one of those nights might be. The leaky weatherseal on the kitchen window doesn't help things much in that regard, though it is a fairly useful defect when the heat is flowing. Right now, it is startlingly cold in my generally pleasant bathroom; I will be hurrying through my bedtime routine tonight.

Today I tried to walk everywhere I needed to go by way of paths that allowed me to keep my face in the sun, something that was not always possible. But when it worked out, it was always worth the effort.

In the basement of Heffers, as I read a bit about phenomenology (you know, as one does), I heard a child ask his mother, "Mum, Mum, what is You: The Instruction Manual?" "It's a book about improving yourself," came her reply. "About including yourself?" he responded.

And there was the sun on one side of King's, and there was the sun on the other. And then there was the moon, as if everything hadn't already sat up and posed for its picture.