Sphinx is finally committed to print. Two proof copies this time, because I can never finalise anything properly. It will have its chickens in yellow this time round - splashing out - and a daffodil yellow cover. Tying up the last po-ratings today and double-checking my arithmetic.

Meanwhile, I still haven't got back to some of the poets from my December reading 'window'. That should happen in the next two weeks, since it's college holidays. There's some good stuff sitting in my box.

Away tomorrow to visit the splishy splashy Falls of Dochart for a few days. If it rains, they will be superb. If it doesn't, walks will occur. A large box of books is packed, though since 90% of it is poetry, I may not get far. Sometimes, it's like having eaten too much chocolate - you can't face the sight of any of any more. Oh, but better not admit that. The Muse might hear...

Only books to pack, no laptop (my other half says he will leave me if I get one). Holidays, so far as he is concerned, don't have computers on them. I think he's right. I was always a letter-writer by nature, and on holiday with pen and paper, I'm happy as Larry. Who was Larry?

Hours spent today tidying up piles of publications and clearing the bed and the floor in the spare room, both of which were practically invisible... That means there is now room for the next volumes, which will materialise quite soon.


The Falls of Dochart, falling.