Well, it is fortunate my natural mode is obscurity, because it would seem feedly is not too keen on the way of the Twangy Pearl. This is fine, I propose. I'll continue to write here in my backwater, freed from the need to be in any way interesting by the knowledge that at least no one has to wade through it all.
So, some nuggets of news:
The cat has taken to patrolling the countertops at night, hoping to nibble an apple crumble, lick a pound of butter* or lap a bowl of cornflakes left there to "soften". (I know. Shudder. Not even food to start off with! But what is this fresh hell, also mushy? No-ness.) in protest at the diet the vet has imposed on her. Her whole life thus revolves with intense focus around mealtimes. Last week, I spied her from the upstairs bathroom window, three gardens away, perched on a wall. "Kitty!" I cried and the little lardbag lept instantly into action, racing urgently along the wall, nimbly hurdling the three garden fences - one, two, three - in her very own private action sequence, spurred on by the desperate hope of food.
Ah yes, my familiar.
Here is another photo from our letter - this time our local park. Behold! Pretty colours. I have put my finger on the uncomfortable feeling I have about it: my fear it is BROCHUREY. Maybe that is hard not to fall into when you do this sort of thing for a living, "Ooh, I know how to make this attractive! Oh, no, wait. We are not a product, are we." There is also the necessarily brief nature of it and what you must leave out. How to sum up a life without being dishonest? However. Must. Redirect. Thoughts. Must. Not. Overthink.
In a few weeks, it'll be sent off, and I can forget about it.
Have good weekends, (one each, you understand), everyone.
*And, what to do with possibly licked butter? Say 50/50 was the possibility of having been assaulted with a feline tongue? Advice welcome.