I'm typing this on the couch in the lounge. I like the lounge; it's grand but cozy and well-lived in. It catches the afternoon light well. It's also quite cold. Not as cold as my bedroom, mind, but chilly nonetheless. It has a fireplace, but I've spent a chunk of the morning chopping wood, and the thought of burning it is anathema. I'm wearing gloves until my laptop warms up enough to keep my fingers warm. Typing with gloves is not as challenging as I feared - in fact, aside from the odd typo, it's no problem at all. The trackpad, however, is another story. It's having none of my gloved fingers. In a moment of total disconnect, I couldn't work out why it wasn't responding. I panicked for a second, feeling a bit like Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense. When common sense dawned and I removed one of my gloves, the cursor sprang back to life, and my MacBook bore no resemblance to Haley Joel Osmont.
I need a pair of gloves with the right index finger removed.
In other news is a rubbish phone call, a growing wood pile, and cats so smart they know when you need a cuddle.