All right, it’s evening already, but this is still just the second day after my last post, so… progress.
Ran this morning in the cold, and wasn’t it just? Both of the last two days I’ve settled for very modest paces, not really limber enough to push for a stunning personal best. I had a church-related meeting yesterday morning, then took things easy in the afternoon — I actually spent time reading a novel, The Framed Women of Ardemore House, a clever, small (which I usually mean in a very positive way), engaging mystery novel. Of course, there’s a murder; it has to be murder these days, not just theft or some other malfeasance. But at least there isn’t a crazed serial killer who provides an excuse for the author to expatiate on their pet theories about mental health and homicide. The protagonist is, like her author, autistic; I found this part satisfying, not overplayed nor tailored to sweeping generalisations about autism. I saw somewhere that it was promoted as the first in a series; everything has to be a series now, but I suppose that if one has put in the work to imagine a microworld and the personæ that populate it, you might as well set it to work for more than one novel.
Margaret arrives home tomorrow morning. I’ll be at St Michael’s patronal festival, but I’ll leave early to catch up with my sweetheart. I’m scheduled to open and close a ‘Devotional Concert’ tomorrow night; the nature of the event isn’t clear to me, but it’s important that the parish clergy remind the audience that we’re there, and perhaps even worth talking to or visiting. But did I mention that Margaret will be home?
And, Go Orioles!