Two turtle doves were making their nest in the branches above my head this morning. I kid you not. All we need now is a partridge and a few pears and we've got Christmas in July.
Instead of a partridge, though, there's a large gecko crawling around between my legs, and I'm listening to the music of crickets in lieu of carols. Perhaps we're more into Old Testament territory (Eden and the like) than the birth of Christ and Coca-Cola's Santa Claus.
Whatever it is, it's a little piece of paradise. But a damn hot one (a veritable hellish roast).
This is how my head works now. Thinking one thing then another. Unable to settle, unable to decide, unable to cross the t's and dot the i's and finish off the squiggle of the s's. In a constant state of flux. The novel is a future bestseller. The novel is drivel. I want to be a lawyer again. I can't bear the thought of being back in an office. I'm excited about the new man I'm dating. I'd rather be with my ex (but which one?)
It's bloody exhausting.
At least football is easy. I'm for Spain. I think.