Dec. 11th, 2012

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The scene: to my back, a fire with log and turf and flames. To my right, my laptop on the hearthrug. To my left, an armchair, colonised by a sleeping cat. My notebook is open across my cross-legged knees. My current reading is balanced on the armchair, half-shoved under the snoring cat to keep the pages open. A teapot (presently empty) sits on the hearth. The ceiling light is on. My back sweats and my toes are cold.

Every few pages I must pause in my note-taking to settle my anxiety. And so we go on.

(Reading: Saara Lilja, The Treatment of Odours in the Poetry of Antiquity.)

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