“… and no ticket were sold.”


Sappho, John William Waterhouse

The post title is from one of those idiotic Nigerian scam letters, meant to assure me that I’m special and needn’t worry about the rest of the world having a go at the millions coming my way. I really can’t believe people fall for those letters. Really.

Pendrifter drifted this week ’cause I’ve been working diligently on A Lamentation of Swans, some writing, some slicing and dicing, some more writing. Today is more of same, and I hope to update the word meter.

Looks like rain outside–cinerous sky, leaden clouds. No chance of me being lured into idleness today. Coffee’s ready, and Gaius is glaring at me. Better get to work.