The Ink-Pot and the Palette

Hello! Come in! Have some tea with me. I just made a pot.

God, I'm tired! You wouldn't think working an extra hour or two a day would make that much difference, would you? But it does. So I've been unwinding by knitting in front of the tube, half-watching episodes of Due South. Oh, look! We're up to "Some Like It Red"! Paul Gross in a drag is fun every time.

*sips tea* Oh, that's lovely. Milk? Sugar? Here you go.

I had the pleasure of reading and commenting on an older story of ravurian's last night, and though it has rocked my orbit a little and made me reconsider the word "writer" in relation to myself, I also feel challenged by his virtuosity to discover something more authentic in my own words.

We've agreed to write "single-breath" stories (one unbroken exhalation of words, without prior self-editing) to one another's prompts, and my problem at the moment (besides lacking the time to write) is simultaneously wanting and trying not to write to impress the prompter, which results in...self-editing! Before a word goes on the screen.

*waves at ravurian*

Work will slow down again in another few days and I might resume living in my right mind. Meanwhile, here, have another cup of tea while it's hot.


Yarn I'm knitting a skirt out of [/random]

I love a cup of tea. Nothing fancy, just a black tea of some kind, brewed in a pot and served British style, with sugar and rich milk in a ceramic cup.

You can't get a good cup of tea at any of the coffee places in Portland (because they don't seem to understand the concept of boiling water). There are tea places, but they are very tea-chesty and wafty and superiorly Asian-themed, and tend to look at you a little askance if you want sugar, let alone milk, as if their concept of ceremony is quite spoiled by dairy.

So I make tea at home. The thing is, I don't generally crave tea unless I'm coming down with a cold. So here I sit, sneezing and feeling a bit off, with a pot of Chinese black tea, and the bowl of sugarcubes that I keep in the freezer so that it's not a bowl of ants, and a pitcher of half milk, half cream, and a nice hot cuppa, and I just know I'm going to be sicky-girl by Thursday.

Damn.

*pours another cup*