I had to be at a meeting in Glasgow early yesterday. I struggled off the train at Queen Street with the last huge carrier bag of Sphinxes, which I put into the big round red postbox near the ticket office. Dunnit! Oh, what nice things Ross Bradshaw said about it on his very interesting Five Leaves blog. I am grateful . . .
Sphinxes have been going in envelopes all week, but only in little showers of about a dozen at a time, packeted late at night. So I'm up to letter L. If you haven't had yours yet, you're either at the wrong end of the alphabet, or you're in the 'wild card' list. (Don't ask.)
Well, I do find it usually. Somehow. However, this week I've hit one of those less positive phases. I am not going to manage to do all the things I need to do before Christmas. Not quite sure which of them is going to go, but something will.
If there were any music that could seem true
it was of a pessimistic piano or violin and it would be
an étude, nothing divertimento, an étude in rain . . .
This is entirely written, of course, in the additional hour -- the one that went backwards in the middle of the night and meant that I got up at half past eight instead of half past nine.
Anne Caldwell, author of Slug Language, has won a First Collection award with Cinnamon Press and will have a full length collection out with them in 2011. Great news! Hardly any of Anne's pamphlets are left, so if you want a collector's item, ask for one now.