Bric-a-brac

 I'm covered in dust and sweat. At 10.30pm or thereabouts, I decided that I would get my 10,000 steps for the day, something I hadn't done in weeks, if not months. I let it go, like I let everything else go, driftwood that get swept up in the tide of my indifference, or rather my lack of application.

But today, a Sunday, the first day of my week of leave, I wrapped two presents, wrote out two cards, cleared three stories (and sent them), walked 10,000 steps (my calves are protesting now) and rebaked some fruitcake because when I unwrapped it after a month, I discovered it was soggy.

And I texted Ron to see where she was to give her her fruitcake and a Christmas card and her present, a book on cats. Fiction. My house is starting to pile up with presents (and fruitcake) and so I wrap them up and try to see who I can deliver them to. I want to get the fruitcake that is ready for consumption, off my hands. To do that, I need to write out some more cards. I have loads and loads of Christmas cards and this year, not many to send them to as the post office firmly shut its doors on my face, not allowing me to post anything overseas.

I finished listening to Saving Missy by Beth Morrey on Audible and have decided that it is one of my favourite books of the year. The person who read it was so very good that I revel in her plummy accent (switching to Irish, switching to northern - the verbal class distinction, by now should be antique, if you talked like her, sir, instead of the day you do, why you might be selling flowers too).

I discovered the book because I am on the mailing list of Mr B's Emporium of Reading Delights and this was on its "Best books of 2020" list. When I read the description, it was the one that most caught my eye. Of any on the list. And I was right. In an age of flippant books which have the depth of a souffle, this one was a rich, plummy fruitcake.

With a satisfying aftertaste.

And then I watched one episode of Social Distance (the one about the Zoom funeral) and one episode of Song Exploder (the one on Hamilton's "I Can Wait"). They are  a break from my normal Korean/Chinese/Christmas fare because I read about them on Wired and The New Yorker. 

I'm being forced to read more for inspiration and information. But a side effect are the books I learn about and the Netflix shows I watch.

Time for a shower and then, to bed.

Oh wait, I have two more fruitcakes to wrap.

I'll tell you tomorrow who I deliver them to.

Why did Massachio die so young?

If he had lived would he have been another Leonardo or Michelangelo?