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August 31st, 2009

Jetlag Fugue in the Key of ZZZZZ

Here I am again, feeling like I'm in a movie nobody's given me the script to. Usually when we travel, I'm an extra, with maybe a couple of crowd-noise-type lines: an order to a waiter, a voice in a party. Here, I've got an actual speaking part--female protag's guest from out-of-town--and I so don't know my lines.

(It's raining as I write--a visible mist that glitters in the sun, which is distinctly out, casting shadows and everything sun should do. There's even blue sky overhead. So where is the rain coming from? And Ellen's in the garden, eating rice pudding (tinned) and drinking elderflower cordial. And probably getting, if not wet, certainly damp. Ah, England.)

We had lunch in the pub with Terri and friends--mostly artists, mostly Not From Around Here, but comfortably at home with pints of local ale and plates full of roast beet, Yorkshire pud, mashed swede, and that fine old English side-dish, ratatouille, talking about Twilight and vampire psychology in accents ranging from Israeli to German to Slovenian to London and our own East-Coast, clipped patter.

(Somewhere nearby there's a party going on--many voices chattering and surging, punctuated by laughter and the chinking of china or glasses. And there's the churchbell, striking four. I don't remember its striking the hours last night, but then I didn't notice much, except how nice and warm the duvet was and how comfy the bed.)

Called upon to give a history of literary vampires, I blanked on the author of Vareny the Vampire. Lewis? Walpole? Without access to internet, I'm still wracking my brain. And when the did idea that vampires can subsist on animal blood become part of the myth? Before or after Anne Rice? I used to know this stuff. I know it at home. I will probably know it when my brain makes landfall, hopefully tomorrow.

(We took a walk yesterday evening, to a field we thought was the Common, but turns out to be a field the abutters bought so developers wouldn't. It's used to graze sheep and cows, and boasts four apple trees, currently bearing. I picked one for Ellen, who pronounced it a little before it's time. I'm thinking of sauteeing it with butter, perhaps for lunch tomorrow. We've got a lovely little kitchen, and we can't eat out every night. Or at least, we could, but we probably shouldn't.)

When I'm here, I really want to write. It must be something in the air (apart from the rain (the sun's disappeared, btw. The rain is definitely winning this round)). After a nice cup of strong black tea, that almost seems possible, and then I get out my notebook and my WIP, and my mind skips off.

(is that lichen growing in the thatch, or moss? It's greyish green, which argues lichen, but moss seems more natural in thatch, and there's a patch of greyish moss on the garden wall, so the jury's out on that one--at least until it stops raining and I can get a closer look. Those people are still partying. The English are a hardy race. Or maybe they're inside. Or under a tent. I think I need to lie down now. Lie down, or have another cup of tea.)

We're going out to dinner with friends--another movie I don't have the script for.

I think I should lie down. I'll be more coherent soon. I promise.

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