So. The clock is ticking. By the end of this summer my book about third culture literature needs to be finished. That means a substantial re-write of chapter two and the introduction and the writing from scratch of a forward and a concluding fourth chapter. What? You say you don't care?
Well, fine. It seems you are in concert with the universe for my daytimer for the next week features the following:
Pepita to vet for booster and re-scan of her microchip because the number I got last time is, apparently, wrong.
Hardie to vet for vaccinations and to figure out why he is chewing the base of his tail so vigorously.
Winton to vet, I mean DOCTOR, for shots and to have preschool health forms filled out.
Lots of time driving around, hanging out in waiting rooms, and having small things cry/ shed/ bleed on my lap.
Not so much time thinking about the convolutions of what happens when writers grow up expat.