I was loaned a novel to read, it's called A Fistful of Rain by Greg Rucka. I think I stared at the cover for half an hour, looking at the title.
How clever.
Really clever.
I love it when words are spun, conveying an impossibility, finding a new angle from which to light an idea or thought that lends a new brilliance, previously unacknowledged.
The book was a well-meant luxury, an effort to convince me that while the kids are in school today I am to do something for me. Just me. Henry will spend his first entire morning at school today and we pick up them for lunch and then return Ruth to school for the second half while Henry is home in the afternoons.
Which gives me from shortly after nine until almost eleven-thirty kidless.
And it's Monday.
I know someone who has Mondays off.
He's very tall, very blonde and very sweet.
And we'll be home alone. Together.
Ha.
Something tells me A Fistful of Rain isn't going to find my attention today. I'll save it for the end of the week.
