waiting for laundry

For reasons best known to no one in particular, I'm doing laundry at half past midnight. Not just any laundry, mind, but my bed linens, meaning that my nightly refuge is bare and I'm growing increasingly sleepy. This sleepiness is not aided by either Bach's Works for Trumpet or my remaining dregs of Lagavulin, though that is my company right now. It's good company, irksomely relaxing though it may be.

I had vague hopes of getting some editing done, but editing is not for this time of night. This time of night is where things that will eventually require editing are created. Red pens and rewrites require the harsh light of day and a sober, conscious temperament. These witching hours, for me anyway, see the beginnings of writing. Ideas in their most basic, sentence-fragmented form peek out at the world, triggered by a stumbling of awkward synapses. I need a pen or a keyboard or else I'll just forget them.

And so I'm sitting at my desk, battering out a blog post and keeping one ear on the drier in hopes that it does its magic before I have to pour myself another dram. There are a couple of new docs open, with sentences here and there that will no doubt need examining in tomorrow's refreshed clime.

The cat's asleep on my naked duvet. He doesn't care if it has a cover.

light thaw

I wrote this a week ago. It snowed today, bizarrely, as it was well above freezing. It didn't stick.

There's been a bit of a thaw of late. Aside from the hills to the north, there's no snow to be seen. The cold still lingers though, and there's a dampness to the air that clings to the bones. But there's not been much frost in the mornings and that's something. Some days have been positively mild.

I don't trust thaws. Not until at least April, anyway. This one is no different. Every Sunday spent playing cricket or rugby on the beach has been stolen from the winter, and I've little doubt it will claim them back sooner or later. I've taken the lining out of my jacket and I'll eschew a scarf while I can, but whatever jumper I choose will be thick, of that there's no doubt.

Ideally, I'd run away about now. Key West or Collioure would both be lovely at this time of year (it's a little-known fact that this blog was started on a trip to Key West in January - when I'm famous, that could be valuable trivia). I've seen both in January and they're a damn sight more comfortable than anywhere in Scotland.

Sadly, that's not possible this year. Be it finance, commitment or simply some sense of anchoring, I'll not be travelling far any time soon.

Instead I've got over a year's worth of photos to sort out, many of which show distant shores - some Atlantic, some Pacific. I also have a car that works, which brings the rest of this kingdom closer - never a bad thing.

The photo sorting proves harder as time passes. Every image is either laden with nostalgia and fondness or prompts quizzical reflection. Those things take too much time, and they're a bit distracting. I'd rather linger on shots of Boston in April, California in July and Islay in August than the slate grey of Fife in January or February.

Elsewhere is appealing at the moment, but it isn't an option. So I'll write about here and gaze at images of there and get a little lost somewhere in the middle.