Recovering

If ever I fake my own death it will probably be an accident, considering that this summer a few people, Lucy included, were temporarily under the impression that I'd shuffled off the mortal coil. Though I have been tempted to fake my own kidnapping once or twice before, for the sake of getting a little work done.

July was spent, as mentioned before, trying to polish off a still nameless novel, which has since been passed on to Lucy and even now is lurking in at least one reading pile that I can think of - which is probably why I've suddenly gotten so much better at keeping my phone charged and in my pocket. The day after it was handed off I dragged the Englishman to meet my grandfather, which hasn't happened before because said grandfather doesn't fly and I don't Florida, which is where he happens to have wedged himself in. It also happens that he's a retired NASA physicist, so I spent the week playing with ion mass spectrometers and scribbling down the stories he told while the two of them talked philosophy. Then we hauled butt to the Shore, with a detour along the way to fetch my little sister from summer camp, because the Englishman has never seen the Shore and I miss it.

The day after I made it back to my usual timezone, I packed up and went to Edinburgh. Which was unexpectedly lovely, given the amount of carping I've heard from people about Scotland. Besides dragging myself up Calton Hill and being treated to the unexpected sight of a dozen well-muscled men wearing nothing but kilts, I also dragged myself up Arthur's Seat, and saw the absolute worst stand-up comedy that has ever been performed anywhere by anyone. The Book Festival sticks its authors in an actual yurt when they're not in use, and since Jura was a sponsor there was a full bottle of whisky out to be poured from at will every evening I was there. The actual event in which I participated was the most enjoyable I've ever done; the chair was lovely, the audience was lovely, Michael Russell was lovely, I didn't misspell anyone's name when I signed their book, and I didn't do anything that I need to be ashamed of. Though I did manage to trigger an audience gasp of horror: the chair asked who we'd have for a fantasy dinner party; I asked if it was a party to have a nice chat or for the sole purpose of putting strychnine in the soup, because I'd been waiting for the day to poison Phillip Pullman since I read The Amber Spyglass as a child.

And almost immediately following my return from Edinburgh came the holiday weekend and the Reading Festival, where I saw bands playing live that I can't name because it'll just sound like bragging.

Even making allowances for my fuzzy math skills, I think I've had five actual working days in the month of August.

So now it's back to work. I'm hoping that, any day now, my head will break water. Though it's more likely that Henry will find out how little I've gotten done. Or rather, how much more there still is to do. I should be hauling carcass back to Norwich for the last year of the degree in a few weeks, and usually my work life takes over once I'm back. The room we began turning into an office at the beginning of the summer will be getting a floor tomorrow, so of course I'll be going back the moment that it's actually finished and useable. I have a half-hope still that having a designated room of my own, instead of working off the dining room table and being moved around constantly, will mean that I'll get more work done while I'm down in Reading, because it feels like I simply don't work enough while I'm here. Of course, the converse is equally likely to be true: I do far too much work while I'm in Norwich and if I keep up that pace something will spontaneously combust.

Heaven alone knows what will happen once I graduate and home and work find themselves merging.