A day of writing and doing bugger all else

Part of the problem with forgetting to take your cable with you when you go on vacation to Portugal (and probably other places, too) is that you take copious notes that you then have to match up to photos and remember what your initial intention was when writing said copious notes and photos. This is what I found myself doing yesterday when, instead of doing more meaningful writing, I spent the day or at least a large portion of it remembering conversations I had had last month in Évora, giggling manically to myself, and then trying to be too smart in writing it down. It doesn’t take much in the way of hindsight or self-awareness to realise that 2400 words is way too much for a blip. If I had an editor… But being an editor, when writing, is like a physician healing himself. Doesn’t. Happen.
 
Other than that, we had the continuation of the first meaningful snow. I had meant to fix the evidence of the attack on our house by raccoons, but didn’t. I meant to make some phone calls, but didn’t. I meant to do a lot of things, but didn’t. The blip is evidence of their brazen (or should that be craven?) attack. No, definitely brazen: raccoons are never timorous.
 
In the evening, had a brief conversation with friends out in Victoria before leaving the two other Ottawackers to it and going downstairs to prepare dinner (chicken in an alfredo sauce with pasta). Then we realised we were hosting Mrs. Ottawacker’s family for Christmas this year, and had a brief sort of panic about how we were going to fit everyone in. Ottawacker Jr. came home with some sort of cold, which hasn’t developed. My lurgey seems to be improving.
 
There, I’ve finished. You can all wake up now.