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September 2nd, 2009

Of Cream and Rain

I notice Ellen's writing a post (well, we're sitting next to each other on a love seat, so it's hard not to notice) about the fish van and probably our walk to Sandy Park as well, so I'll have to find something else to write about. Except, of course, the part where I slipped crossing the river on the stepping stones, and caught my self on the next stone so that only one foot went in, and that not very far, although plenty far enough to make walking a tolerably squishy experience.

(Can you tell I've been reading His Majesty's Dragon? I downloaded it from Random House onto my iPhone, and have been happily paging through it. Good thing my story's steam-punk, or the archaic strain that's crept into my diction would be a real problem.)

Today has been extremely curious, weather-wise. One minute, bright, warm sun and little white, puffy clouds scudding through a blue sky. The next, great grey rainclouds, wind, and a brisk downpour, as if someone were watering seedlings though a watering-pot fitted with a rose. And then everything sparkles as the sun comes out again, as if the rain had never been. Except, of course, for the grass being wet, ditto my jacket, which is light fleece and not made for such things. An umbrella would have been useless--umbrellas are very urban, aren't they? I had a woollen shawl and Ellen had her Shakespeare in the Park Hamlet/Hair hoodie (which has drawn some alarmed glances in the village square), so we weren't exactly soaked. But we were glad to reach Sandy Park Inn and order a half-pint of cider (between the two of us) and dry off a bit before heading back, through no fewer than five rounds of rain and sun.

There was a rainbow when we got home, a real humdinger visible through the bathroom window.

As we walked, I talked my story out with Ellen, and now I know what I need to do with it, more or less. Which begins, unfortunately, with throwing out everything I've written over the past two days and starting over. It would be depressing if it weren't for the fact that I know my heroine better, having made up a useful backstory for her. But still.

And the cream? Well, after a light dinner of plaice, boiled potatoes, sauteed leeks, and mushrooms and courgettes, we figured we were due some dessert. So Ellen went out and got crumpets and a container of clotted cream, and we toasted the crumpets (in the toaster) and ate them, with the cream and some blackberry jam, in front of the fire I built in the little wood stove. And they were delicious.

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