Finally I'm back writing, after the excursions and excitements of the last few weeks. 1120 new words today. Aude is beginning to discover that her ex-fiance's mother is not quite sane, and Jehan is being strangely remote.
That puts me on... let me go and count... 19,744 words, which is behind, but I still have some time available.
High winds have brought down one of the local rowan trees, which is a shame. That particular one seemed to be ailing -- it was less leafy and less happy than the others, but all the same, I mourn it. The beeches and other rowans, plane trees and purple-sprouting broccoli trees1 are all fine, thankfully, as are our garden trees (one snowy mespil, one apple, one weeping cherry, two greengage and a small damson).
And I have done Official stuff for ye agent, and tried and failed to fit a new wiper blade to the car (mutters darkly about designs that require strong fingers) and done laundry, and read for next week's Milford workshop and all and all been fairly virtuous today. It's cool and crisp, I can see leaves and bright rowan berries from my window, the cats are behaving, the marquis is over his cold and life is feeling pretty good.
Skirt of the day: denim. I have to go and attend to Caro winolj's rather, um, excitable, cat Ramses soon, and I need barriers against his (in)famous teeth and claws.
1 They're narrow leaved ash trees. But before we found that out, we called them the p-s b trees, and it's stuck. And really, in their autumn foliage, that's what they look like.