Winter is here
The deep cold of winter has returned. Even the ambient air temperature is conspiring to keep my writing from moving forward. As I've mentioned before, I do all my writing in a small "summerhouse" at the bottom of the garden. The furnishing is spartan: a desk and chair; a table lamp; a fan for hot weather; a security light attached to the outside wall; and a low-wattage electrical heater. At this time of year, the heater is the only thing which prevents me from dying of hypothermia. As things stand, it only just takes enough of the edge off the cold to prevent my fingers from freezing ... mostly. I recall an occasion, last February, when it was so cold that I was physically incapable of typing. My fingers just went numb and quit working.
The temperature's about -5 degrees Celsius outside right now. Frost is sparkling on the lawn, and icebergs are forming on the pond like regiments of glaciers poised and ready for the next Ice Age. If it were to rain, the precipitation would come down as fine, dusty snow (all too rare in the climate of coastal Suffolk). This weather might not sound too extreme to you, but consider that, where I live, frosts are rare and summers are long, hot and dry. I haven't seen much evidence of global warming here lately. In fact, the weather seems to be getting colder each winter.
Which is odd, because the winters are growing shorter and the summers longer. Wordsworth's daffodils in Borrowdale (Lake District) are blossoming weeks earlier than they used to. Many trees retain their green foliage well into October.
Does that make sense to you?
Writing
Writing is still going very badly. No update on my NaNo count. No progress whatsoever on ETF. However, I have saved myself from a potentially embarrassing mistake in Cold Witness. Apparently, Jodrell Bank is a radio telescope array ... not a radar set. Therefore Col. Foyle couldn't possibly be receiving reports from Jodrell Bank of incoming unknown craft crossing the polar ice cap at 25x the speed of sound. *smacks self on head* Duh! Will have to find a way of weaving RAF Fylingdales in there somewhere.
I'm currently reading The Hunt for Red October by Tom Clancy. To Kate and Justin: It is "Russkies", not "Ruskies". I was right all along!
Work
Work is starting to get hectic. Although Jenni and Chris were both in today, they were engaged elsewhere in the store, leaving Chloe and I to mind the tills alone for most of the day. That wouldn't be so bad if things weren't busy, but they were. To make matters worse, Frances is not going to be in tomorrow (something about a predicted mother of all hangovers from a party tonight), which means that--you've guessed it--Chloe and I will have to mind the tills all day tomorrow as well.
The deep cold of winter has returned. Even the ambient air temperature is conspiring to keep my writing from moving forward. As I've mentioned before, I do all my writing in a small "summerhouse" at the bottom of the garden. The furnishing is spartan: a desk and chair; a table lamp; a fan for hot weather; a security light attached to the outside wall; and a low-wattage electrical heater. At this time of year, the heater is the only thing which prevents me from dying of hypothermia. As things stand, it only just takes enough of the edge off the cold to prevent my fingers from freezing ... mostly. I recall an occasion, last February, when it was so cold that I was physically incapable of typing. My fingers just went numb and quit working.
The temperature's about -5 degrees Celsius outside right now. Frost is sparkling on the lawn, and icebergs are forming on the pond like regiments of glaciers poised and ready for the next Ice Age. If it were to rain, the precipitation would come down as fine, dusty snow (all too rare in the climate of coastal Suffolk). This weather might not sound too extreme to you, but consider that, where I live, frosts are rare and summers are long, hot and dry. I haven't seen much evidence of global warming here lately. In fact, the weather seems to be getting colder each winter.
Which is odd, because the winters are growing shorter and the summers longer. Wordsworth's daffodils in Borrowdale (Lake District) are blossoming weeks earlier than they used to. Many trees retain their green foliage well into October.
Does that make sense to you?
Writing
Writing is still going very badly. No update on my NaNo count. No progress whatsoever on ETF. However, I have saved myself from a potentially embarrassing mistake in Cold Witness. Apparently, Jodrell Bank is a radio telescope array ... not a radar set. Therefore Col. Foyle couldn't possibly be receiving reports from Jodrell Bank of incoming unknown craft crossing the polar ice cap at 25x the speed of sound. *smacks self on head* Duh! Will have to find a way of weaving RAF Fylingdales in there somewhere.
I'm currently reading The Hunt for Red October by Tom Clancy. To Kate and Justin: It is "Russkies", not "Ruskies". I was right all along!
Work
Work is starting to get hectic. Although Jenni and Chris were both in today, they were engaged elsewhere in the store, leaving Chloe and I to mind the tills alone for most of the day. That wouldn't be so bad if things weren't busy, but they were. To make matters worse, Frances is not going to be in tomorrow (something about a predicted mother of all hangovers from a party tonight), which means that--you've guessed it--Chloe and I will have to mind the tills all day tomorrow as well.
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