On the pretext of having to buy some mead for someone, I went to Wilmington today, home of an allegedly-but-almost-certainly-not prehistoric chalk hill figure. The Sussex countryside is beautiful at the moment, even in a low mist, but we're now back to dampness and sea frits. But Imbolc is looming: primroses out already, along with the first of the snowdrops.
I'm about to start work on a new short story, based loosely on Sarah Bernhardt, and also start reading David Mitchell's GHOSTWRITTEN, which Chris P strongly recommends. More on this later.