The title of this post is what my brother told me this morning as he wrapped himself in a bunch of blankets and went back to sleep. We’re still waiting for the delivery of the LAN cable, so he’s been revising some work, but really can’t do anything. So he’s catching up on lost sleep.

In the meantime Venice is sinking, the nation is shifting to the right with disquieting speed and enthusiasm, and snow has come to Astigianistan. Our village is still clear, but we’ve been under ice-cold rain for the last 24 hours – the idea of ordering take-away pizzas last night caused the delivery guy to basically swim to our courtyard gate.

The bad weather has meant that we were able to invite the Cat with No Name inside, and this caused the LAN-sabotaging mouse to leave the premises with a certain urgency. The Cat with No Name was somewhat disappointed, like “Monkey-boy, you invite me to dinner and then dinner runs away?”

I am currently 4000-words into the new Aculeo & Amunet story, having worked on it most of the morning. I am still completely without voice – which is bad, because I should record two podcasts – and surviving on a diet of aspirin and tea (and occasionally take-away pizza).
I’ll be spending at least part of the weekend reading Gareth L Powell’s About Writing. Because I like Powell’s work, I collect books about writing, and I am feeling too miserable to do anything else but read.

We had plans, about early morning walks in the hills and what else – the weather decided we should stay put, and wait for springtime.