I love Weebly's stats. They bear no relation to reality whatsoever.
It's -4 degrees centigrade, the heating only clicked on at 8:10am because I fiddled with the timer (I'm sure I set it to come on at 7:30. Why am I always hot at 7:30?) and it's ... only having a pathetic attempt at snowing, none of which is settling.
Which is unsettling given even locally I keep reading about things saying CLOSURE, and I don't think it's a sense of satisfaction they're finding.
There really is something seriously wrong with this patch of England's climate; even when back when I was at school the snow affecting a town five miles — wait, eleven miles away? — was wildly different.
Although given it turns out it really was eleven miles away (Google wouldn't lie to me, right?), only three miles nearer than Nottingham city center itself but in the wrong direction, maybe that accounts for it. (Wonder if my mother's nurse will turn up today? Given they have issues turning up when the roads are clear and then lie about it, it's doubtful.)
The chances of me getting any peace and quiet today are nonexistent. Why do you never write any more? nonexistent voices cry. Because that's not a luxury afforded to full-time carers of narcissists, I shout silently back.
That and work. Quite a lot of work today.
I can amuse myself with mental images of Milos and Alex in a dewy field at least. No idea where the scene came from but I'm not complaining. Apparently, neither is Milos.
Asexual, aromantic, and transmasc non-binary. No, I have no idea how I ended up writing romance either.