Rain on a Hot Glass Roof

A hot tin roof would be even better. (Don't be greedy Granny. You can't have everything.) Started early; is clearing. A few dabs of sun and a range of mother-of-pearl colours creep across the landscape. Earth dark, stone walls pale, the home-made spiral on the far side out the land stands out boldly. Lone palm trees on the horizon are still. The wind will be up later, the sun brilliant. But not yet. Still Atlantic softness.

The cat is wet and mewling.

How's all that for a bit of half-cock poetic prose first thing? (Granny's first thing. A lark she isn't.)

Aged cousin arrives tomorrow. Busyness abounds.... alas, Gp has to join it. To encourage herself will go to admire the first (small) (pink) flower to arrive on her land - one of the geranium family probably. (No botanist, granny. She just likes miraculous - for here - flowers.)

Fleas have been vanquished. (Famous last words?) But Granny is still itching.

Itching to get time to finish first draft of book, too. So nearly there. Some hope. Better, nostalgically, read someone's Ode to Solitude. Hastening to add that she knows, really, that nostalgia for solitude is enough. To much of the real thing can be wearing. Writing life alongside retired Beloved reminds her though sometimes of long-ago writing life alongside toddlers. (Will they sleep for two hours today? Or is half an hour all I've got, before it's walk/meal/entertain them time?) Naughty.