My holiday decision looks as if it will go right up to the wire (i.e the end of the week) as I dither, procrastinate and argue against myself in an uncanny reflection of the national Zeitgeist. I haven’t been able to bring myself to book anything, so the only steps I’ve taken towards carrying out the plan outlined in my previous post are contacting the library in Kirkintilloch to ask if they have any late 19th century newspapers, and asking a friend who lives in Stirling if there’s a tourist bus that goes up to the Castle.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent the parts of this weekend when I haven’t been glued to Twitter watching the British constitution melting down in real time, in reaching 40,000 words in my Brighton novel with the aim of leaving it sitting there until after I’ve written another in my mystery series. Unfortunately recent events have given me some dystopian thoughts, but I’m trying to put them aside for now in the hope that the moment will pass. I think it’s probably too soon to write it anyway.
Any spare moments have been taken up with feeding two other family cats known (to me anyway) as the ‘terrible twins’, partly because they are twins and partly because they can be very tricky to catch once you let them sneak past you at the front door as you fumble with unfamiliar keys. Our cat Jacques, pictured here, came under the influence of a dog at a young age and sometimes even comes in when you call him, although I think the most dog-like thing he does is to run and welcome people at the front door, as opposed to pretending to be asleep with his head turned away, as most other cats do.