Reading A Scholar of Magics to the girls

1crowdedhour, it would have done your heart good to hear the roar of protest I got from the girls tonight when I finished reading the chapter we are on (Reed has just told the Galazon Chase servants to run up the ducal banner because the duchess is back in residence) and told them that was all for tonight.

"No!" they cried. "You have to read more!"

"It's time for bed."

"Please, mommy? Please, please, pleeeeeaaaase, Mommy?"

"No, I can't. You have to get to sleep."

More heart-rending wails.

Bored, you said they would be. Bored.

Ha!

No glare report other than glaring at myself

Mr. Earbrass stands on the terrace at twilight. It is bleak; it is cold; and the virtue has gone out of everything. Words drift through his mind: ANGUISH TURNIPS CONJUNCTIONS ILLNESS DEFEAT STRING PARTIES NO PARTIES URNS DESUETUDE DISAFFECTION CLAWS LOSS TREBIZOID NAPKINS SHAME STONES DISTANCE FEVER ANTIPODES MUSH GLACIERS INCOHERENCE LABELS MIASMA AMPUTATION TIDES DECEIT MOURNING ELSEWARDS....

What is is, really? I have not been writing; I have been reading too much Georgette Heyer, and it feels all of a sudden like Edmund eating too much Turkish delight. It is cold. It is dark. I have a holiday letter to write. I do not have anything to do at work. I am horribly over-educated for it anyway, and what good does all that education do me? I ask you. My attorney had me spend an hour calling different hotels because he did not like the one he is in, and then he booked a new reservation on the Internet himself. I do not feel like exercising. My back leg wheel kicks during karate class bother my knees. I have not seen Rob for days; our schedules have been incompatible lately. The bills are being paid, but they are always there, and really, I am tired of them. I feel a nagging, free-floating guilt, which retreats when I apply cognitive therapy to it, but lo, it always returns. The Republicans seem to be running my country. I do not feel like writing in my (paper) journal. My brain has descended into an alarming state of stupid lethargy, nay, torpor. My house is not clean enough to suit me, and I trip over things walking from one end of my daughters' room to the other. The top of my desk is covered with paperwork. Doubtless my children do not eat enough vegetables. I am probably not getting enough sleep. Why have I never learned to play the Gaelic fiddle? I have one more gift to buy, and I cannot think what to get. My fingers are cold. I cannot seem to get warm lately. My best friend lives too far away.

I am trying to remember the holy tree. It is difficult to remember that it is still there, but I have people who love me who assure me it's true. So go away, you ravens of unresting thought. Scram. Get outta here.

I will try not to gaze into the bitter glass. It is difficult during these dark days of December. But I will try.