Quietly working away at a new project that might be very exciting and interesting and challenging, but at the moment is unusually secret. I have until Tuesday to get something done. It is so long since I have worked for a new client and nerves have chewed at my brain and now I am lost inside it and hoping I have not diverted to a tangent only I will understand. Maybe not lost, the wrong word, absorbed by, absorbed to distraction. I muse on water, the stars, the sun and the moon, moths, wings, night and space. I walk and listen to the larks exulting and to the cuckoo.
My camera has returned, battered, bruised, sad and useless as anything other than a reminder not to put anything in that pocket again. The cats, fed up with watching me sit and look at the phone when it rings, until it stops, have started answering it for me. And the cats have more followers than me on their blog. I am not jealous of my own cats. There are six of them and only one of me.
In Suffolk John has taken delivery of the first of the large hare drawings framed in the white gold frames. I should be having an exhibition with him in September.