I remembered the editor who tried to dissuade me from using the word ‘moist’ in my little book The Gift Horse (the actual phrase was ‘moistening our hands in the May morning dew.’) She said it was redolent of a certain sort of literature, a category into which my novella certainly didn’t fit. I felt this was a bit of a cheek; it was akin to paying the Danegeld, and so I insisted that the phrase should stand. She wasn’t happy.
Apart from that, there were no stars filling the night sky tonight, just drizzle. And I had my hair cut this afternoon, rather badly in my opinion but who the hell is looking?
The only odd thing is that one of the canines in my upper teeth feels sharper to the tongue than usual. According to Bram Stoker, that isn’t a good sign.