Granny is very aware of how unsatisfactory she is these days. Equally unsatisfactory in writing this: she is only doing so because, after a weekend away from her book and with a section ahead of her that she is not sure how to put together, writing this is a delaying tactic only. Sorry.
Still: she and her Beloved are, genuinely, very busy. There is a brief respite now following a fair amount of guests, mostly good company though the pair whose reading matter consisted of Dailies Mail and Express, plus Jeffrey Archer, were not as you might imagine the most congenial of these to the intellectually inclined/intellectual snobs, cum moderate socialists/raging pinkos - delete which ever description fits - Granny and Beloved, as you might imagine: though decorum, amiability, politeness and delicious breakfasts were maintained, as ever: this is called doing business. Granny should in this gap be washing cushion covers and making marmalade with Seville oranges carted back from the UK and now residing in her freezer. Is she? Hell no. She's sitting in her dressing-gown writing this at some quite unseemly hour and will, shortly, still dressing-gowned, be retiring to her office to wrestle with her deathless prose. Oh what a slob, she is.
Meantime the land is covered in wild marigolds - belatedly this year - the two motherless kids are back, now weaned, but still enchanting and much too friendly. Their liking to be cuddled will not be followed up any further. Beguiled by them, Granny duly obliged with cuddles and is now covered in flea bites.
So that's it, folks. Back to the empty page and laptop equivalent of pen-biting. See y'all later.