We went for a three hour walk yesterday and I took lots of pictures, as I usually do. The weather was hot and pleasant, but the horizon faded out in a strange cloudy mist.
If we're not walking, then I'm in the garden - working, I hasten to add. I've planted out lupins and sweet peas grown from last years seed, even though we don't usually plant things out until May here in the north. The winer's collection of weeds are in the compost now, and after the first day, my back didn't ache too much! We're always a fortnight behind the south of England as far as the growing season is concerned. But the weather has been a full fortnight or more ahead of itself this year, so hopefully my little seedlings will survive.
I'm still writing, but not as much as usual. Finally killed off my character. Gulp. Now I have to deal with the aftermath. I don't know how authors can write really harrowing stories. Heavens, I've only killed off a minor character and I put it off for a fortnight, and really didn't like writing it. So if authors write of truly horrible things, the echoes they feel in their lives must be terrible. I don't like reading about nasty things either. There's enough horror and hate in the real world without taking it to bed to read before I fall asleep. T'would give me nightmares.