Dorothy Sayers is just - ah. There are a myriad of thoughts that run amok when I find an author who pleases me so absolutely - like thank god, and why oh why must I come to an end of pages, and if I went this long without knowing they existed, how many others am I shamefully overlooking? Scandalous, really. There's a sort of sadness there too, since Sayers is long-dead and won't ever be writing another word. I still have Thrones, Dominations to read, even, and then there's all the ones that don't feature Harriet Vane - but it's finite. There is no hope, however faint, for more. Which is relieving in a sense, as there is less fear of disappointment. Wonder if that's how L feels about Jeff Buckley.

I am growing nice and tan, oh yes. I am a tall brown sun goddess. This is why I like summertime. I remember now. And long evenings out on the glider, with my mother. Mosquito-free, now, which is perhaps the only concession I will ever make to the advantages of suburban life.

In seven weeks I will be back at school. This is good. Except that it's still too long. Wanna go back NOW. (I am indeed learning some things about whining. Children DO do it best. Oh yes.)