As voted for by 125 famous authors, and why Tolstoy is 11.6% better than Shakespeare. Pretty sure I don’t agree with that last bit, but each to their own, of course. The piece is by Maria Popova at Brain Pickings, which you can read with a clicky on the picky.
I’m laid up with a dreary, deeply unpleasant bug that descended on me with frightening suddenness, when I was happy eating sesame ryvitas and watching Comic Relief. My Mum would have blamed it on the Chelyabinsk meteorite.
Anyway, I’m writing this from my bed, propped up on pillows, a mug of green tea at my side and Poppy sleeping under the covers beside me, curled up against my leg. All is calm, peaceful and actually rather pleasant, in an unwell, feeling dicky sort of a way. No dogs will be walked today, I fear. A pity, as it’s shaping up to be a bit of a lovely day. I’m aching to get into the garden, I have fruit trees sitting in a bucket of water in the garage, and a multitude of bulbs and seeds all waiting for a break in the weather. But there it is. I hope you’re all hale and hearty, my lovelies, enjoying the weekend in bizarre and wonderful ways.