The pair of fat wood pigeons that plague our garden now have names. One's called Orson, and the other's called Welles. If I only see one of them, I tend to assume it's Orson because it's more fun to say the name. It breaks all laws of aerodynamics that birds that fat achieve lift.
It was a good weekend. Friday night I broke my writer's block and passed a big round number. The release was a deluge and I almost resented my schedule over the following two days as it kept me from continuing apace. My fears were allayed today as another round number was passed in a flurry of scribbling that will pick up again when this post is finished.
Saturday was my birthday party. The sun shone bright and friends chatted, tossed the frisbee around, ate, drank and were merry. It didn't really have to be my birthday party. It could just have been a nice bbq. But I'm glad it was, because someone gave me chocolate truffles and someone else gave me a bottle of Lagavulin.
Yesterday I spoke with a family friend for nearly four hours about jobs, my CV and the future. It went well.
Today - well, today was hot. The Belfry is a sauna. Hence writing at night.