Sitting in the backyard reading Ngaio Marsh, Number 27 --- something with "tinsel" in the title, but I've already forgotten, exactly. Anyway, Rory is in Australia and Troy is painting a portrait of and spending Christmas with a man in a plum velvet suit. Murder has not yet occurred, but you know it's going to. I always enjoy stories told through Troy's consciousness; I like Troy wholeheartedly.
Still tired today, not getting much done. It's hot and bright and turning thoroughly summerlike. The washing machine is still broken, but a man is supposed to come sometime today: not Eddie, I don't think, our erstwhile appliance guy, whose service calls always involve instructions for fixing the broken item yourself for cheaper than you could have him fix it, plus recommendations for secondhand appliance dealers and reminders that he charges extra for new appliances, because he can't stand stupidity. Eddie is, as they say, a whole mood.
Wearing, because it's easy:
Purple bamboo swing dress, Xero Colorados, bike shorts under my dress. I'm comfortable and not too hot. Dress and unseen bike shorts both thrifted.
Going to try to do some writing, though I still feel lethargic after last week's labors. Mostly being 57-and-change feels just like being every other age I've ever been, except for the recovery time from strenuous exertion. But whatever.