I cancelled the world today, because I felt really rotten and didn't sleep again last night. I had lunch plans with Jean and Jeannie and dinner plans with Betty. When I called, each said, "Oh, thank goodness." (Does that tell you how much my friends want to see me?) Jean is having trouble with a medication; Jeannie is having bad allergy problems and besides that slipped on an acorn and took a hard fall--she was on her way to get x-rays. And Betty just got back from several days in San Antonio and had lots to do. It was a good day to cancel the world--rained all day, sometimes lightly but heavily around 5:30. More rain is predicted through most of the night. So I holed up in my house, went back to bed for an hour about 10 and again for two hours at 3, finished editing the manuscript I've been working on, and did odds and ends.
Before I retired, I might well have forced myself to go to work, partly out of a strong work ethic but also because I didn't like facing a day at home alone, without any human contact except the occasional phone call (Jordan called to check on me) and email, which really is pretty impersonal. I don't know if I've learned to like my own company better or if it's just that I felt so blah or what, but I welcomed the prospect of the day. Finished up several leftovers in the icebox, so I didn't have to cook--I thought about salmon cakes but decided to eat the leftover chicken spread--with a dab of the wine sauce, it was really good.
Tomorrow I have to get out--things at the office that demand attention, a doctor's appointment, and the grocery. But I have put all my social engagements (sounds busier than I am) on hold for three days. Kind of a good feeling. Since I have a clear desk, I may not start anything tonight, except a new novel.
Surely tomorrow will be a better day. At least, it's supposed to stop raining but will be cool.
I've been reading a series of Vineyard Mysteries by Michele Scott, and she gets my vote for having created a complex, interesting, and sympathetic gay man in the male protagonist's brother, Simon. He makes all the jutting hip gestures, worships movie stars and fast cars and designer clothes, calls the female protagonist Snow White, does all the terribly stereotypical things and yet comes across as believable and someone you like. And he's most protective of Snow White. It's a hard trick to pull off a complex character like that, and she does it well.
My favorite British mystery writer, Deborah Crombie, is not British, lives right here in North Texas, but writes about a Scotland Yard detective. She has a new book, Necessary as Blood, and will be at the TCU Bookstore Friday night. I hope to meet friends Weldon and Elizabeth to hear her brief talk and then go to supper. I rarely buy hardcovers but usually wait for the paperback. I'll buy this one in hardcover.