I don’t mind when it rains. Or even when the wind rattles my window panes. But fog is just sticky and unpleasant. It lingers like the smell of fried onions.
I took Zephyr for a walk, because I have to when it isn’t raining, but it was bone cold. Too chilly to sit outside for coffee–R. won’t let me bring Zephyr inside the cafe (my little neighborhood cafe, where I plant flowers in the spring, tend to their plants in trade for coffee and an ongoing friendly discord with R, the manager.) I don’t know why, Zephyr is more civilized and clean than some of R’s patrons. Humph.
So, I’ve come home to oatmeal. And it wasn’t bad–I rather like oatmeal–but it wasn’t French onion soup or Tomato bisque with croutons, which is what fog really needs. (And maybe a hot toddy too.) The weather, the food and my mood aren’t adding up warmly right now.
And I’m nearly out of yarn! Ghast! I have barely enough to finish ONE wrist warmer. awkward. unbalanced. Not quite right. See? Sigh; oatmeal…
