I spent today writing about an 18th-century wood-paneled wall. It was much easier than yesterday's chair. Phew. It's pure fun to write about art, except when it makes you want to hit your head against a wall.
Possum and Wendy are sulky because I don't have all the time in the world to play with them. Timid little Wendy even sneaked up behind my chair and smacked me on the backside, with her claws out, as I was typing. Like any parent, I make up for my "absence" by buying them toys and treats. But I can hear Possum muttering that stupid Harry Chapin song under his breath: "The cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon...."
"I'm keeping you in tuna!" I scold. "Pipe down. Do your homework. Go kill a mouse."
Tomorrow I'll be writing about wallpaper. If I get that done before sundown, I'll move onto a whole historic parlor. It's fun. And anything is better than writing about disease. With powerful genetic tendencies for hypochondria and anxiety, I can convince myself I have any disease, including prostate cancer and rabies. But I can't convince myself I have wallpaper.