Several minutes ago there was a great crashing of glass. Ted, jerked from sleep, said, “God damn cat! God! Damn! Cat!” with unusual vehemence, and leapt out of bed. I followed, less annoyed but equally awake, and we searched the house, finding a slinking, guilty Zilli, but no broken glass, much less the broken crystal that I feared. We determined it must’ve been outside.
It turned out Ted’s vehemence was born from Lucy puking outside the bedroom door at 4am, an incident which I blissfully slept through. And now he, very sensibly, has gone back to bed, whereas I figure if I go back to bed I won’t get up for at least two hours and won’t start writing until 10am. So I guess I better just go ahead and go to work…
ytd wordcount: 86,200
miles to Minas Tirith: 170.5