Friday, August 1

I know why I like to bake for lammastide.

I enjoy reading scholarly banter and bickering. There's a part of me thinks I could join in if it was interesting enough, or useful. I also admire very much the people who can do things well with their hands: it is a quieter life but probably a more useful one, in the end. I'm not as good at the latter but I admire it more than the former . . . my thesis supervisor (an Anglo-Saxonist of twinkly eyes and a marvellous cackle) suggested I marry a millionaire and get the best of both worlds; apparently millionaires are very lenient with their eccentric wives. Because apparently there is no other way to live both lives.

The whipping session of this dead horse was brought on by the half a minute I found myself gazing into nothing and then waking up to find myself staring at the yellowing edges of an article I printed off ages ago and have kept in my purse to read in waiting rooms and on train platforms. It isn't all that long of an article, but between cooking and cleaning and trying to get my meds to work I haven't been able to finish reading it. That is just embarrassing.

Here is yet another picture of St. Katherine, medieval heroine of women who read--and also, interestingly enough, of woodworkers.

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