Okay, I am healthy. (When you see the Menses Goddess, tell her we are no longer amused by her timing, and ask why she hates archaeologists?)I am as packed as I need to be, if not quite ready, which is pretty good. I wish I would wake up properly. It's after 7 and I am on the third cup of tea and consciousness has not yet dawned. Maybe it's overcast in there.
Toby came and felt asleep on my lap last night, because he was so pleased I got out the afghan he likes. Marten sacked out on Doug's knees. Mena is in the best possible care, and I can afford a few days of it. She is badly anemic but not quite to the kitty blood transfusion point (there is one. I'd hate to see the donors. I bet they're unhappy.) I visited her at the vet's last night and she liked it enough to purr (and flick her tail irritably at Doug when he tried to pat it). The fact that these are what she gives for signs of life suggests how sick she is.
So I have not cleaned out the fridge, finished the paperclay artwork, vacuumed anything, or left the house in any shape for, well, anyone. I have roughly as many knitting projects as there are days I will be away. Since I think a sock in three days is my personal best, I am almost properly overprepared.
I hate leaving home. I like travelling, but not the departure.
More as it develops. If I wake up.