Yesterday was hot. I know what you're thinking--it's England, it can't have been that hot--but I have lived through a summer in Boston, and this was not just a little bit of warmth seeping through the cloud cover, this was rare, beautiful, lethargy-inducing summer weather. On my way home from work I stopped at the vintage-shop-on-the-corner-where-I-never-find-anything-but-always-have-to-look to try on a dress that was hanging in the window. And that shop was warm, it was stuffy, but I thought, it's ok, they've got a fan back there and the door open, and the salesgirl is still alive, so in the five minutes it takes me to try a dress on, I'll be ok. Wrong.
By the time I'd taken my clothes off, put the dress on, and taken the dress off again, I was so sweaty I was starting to drip (I don't envy the next person to try that dress on, really). And there I was in my underwear wondering if it would be weird if I ran out onto the Cowley Road like this just for the sake of some fresh air?
Back at home, I knew the only thing to do was have a nap. I napped all the way through the afternoon, until the Man came home and made a feeble attempt at getting me up and enjoying my company whilst he ate dinner, but I made even feebler protestations and then wove in and out of sleep until he left for his evening football, at which point I stood for some time at the entrance to our house enjoying the cool of almost-darkness. By the time he came home again I was human again and we decided, without ever saying so, that this would be a good time to clean the house, rearrange the study, and plant some herbs in the garden.
So while he potted and watered seeds in the dark (sadly not a euphamism), I moved into my new study, a process which mainly involved carrying books up and down the stairs. It's important to have the right books in the right places if I'm really to get down to work. It simply won't do, when I desperately need to consult a Latin-English dictionary (it could happen, though that thing called the internet makes it...unlikely), to find that it's not within arm's length but instead tucked away on the bookshelf in the lounge. The result was this:
Perhaps most exciting of all is that I've finally found a use for the pretty but utterly impractical Moroccan blanket I bought in Fez on a whim, possibly high on mint tea. It's taken two years but it now has a place in the house, and I have a daybed on which to curl up:
This morning I brought my breakfast upstairs to my new space (I don't like eating breakfast at the kitchen table, for whatever reason), and I felt good about it. Really good. I even wanted to stay sitting there and do some writing as I finished my tea, but I was desperately late for work, so I just have to hold onto that good feeling until this evening.