Doesn’t time pass when you’re writing a book
I think it’s a week since the last blog, but if I ask myself what’s been going on, the answer is, not a lot that’s bloggable. Miss Dog has refrained from crime, though she has managed to get surprisingly oderiferous considering she had a bath not long ago. The skunk cabbage by Twisby Island has produced a single very large and surprising yellow flower. Some late developing narcissus triandrus ‘Thalia’ have turned out to be double, which is very attractive — they are not the official double, which is called Calgary, but must have hybridised with some other variety. The shape is the shape of a single narcissus, but the trumpet is full of ruffled petals, giving very much the effect of a tutu. Otherwise, I am sitting at one computer working on the cultural history of Scotland, and the Professor is at another working on twilight and other topics, and Miss Dog, every now and then, wakes up and sighs at one or other of us for being boring. But it’s been pouring with rain off and on for days: we are going to have to do a fair amount of gardening in the near future, but meanwhile, since outside is so soggy, we are just writing. Not that Miss Dog will approve of gardening either. Cats are quite keen on supervising. Dogs think it’s dull.