2. I bought a digital scale on Saturday. No more peering one-eyed at the murky black lines and invisible red one. Farewell old scale: I think you date to the 80s, but you were accurate to the end, in your adjusted in 2001 to weigh 7 lbs plus avatar. (The downside of digital is the fractions of a pound feature. 'I have had no cake for ten days, why am I .6 of a pound up?!')
3. Clearly I've forgotten what last winter was like- famously, 'the winter that wasn't' of 2012- or else everyone else has. *I* remember a sufficiency of snow in January, enough that when I look at the stark world that resulted from a weekend of mid-April temps, I think 'this doesn't feel like winter at all.' Mind, that just means I've forgotten what December was like up to Christmas. Snow changes everything indeed; I must conclude that '07-08 left me with PTSD. Possibly because the same woes apply: walking in boots *hurts*. This year I somehow strained a tendon doing it, that's required a tensor bandage for a week. Bothers me much less in shoes, of course-- and in shoes I can bicycle: but the snow returns on the weekend.
Also walking on snow, or even cleared sidewalks, is much more boring than walking without. The winter vegetation of the thawed gardens around me is fascinating in its complexity (and of course I got into my 60s without ever noticing it.) Covered in snow there's nothing to look at. Dull. But in past years I'd have been plotting stories as I walked, is why I never noticed either vegetation or the bland sameness of snowfall.
People worriting about unseasonable temps may be cheered to know that the record for warmest January 13, that was broken yesterday, was set when I was four days old. Just saying.
4. I want a box hedge in my garden. Box smells like the gardens in France when I was five. Alas, box likes sunshine and I have trees; and box should not be planted where sidewalk salt can get on it, which lets out the one sunny patch I do have.
People on the forums seem to think box smells like cat piss. They've never smelled cat piss, is all I can say; though one poster in the log I was reading used to tell his landlady that the smell of the weed he smoked was just the box in the garden.
5. Finished the last Inspector Yashim yesterday and dreamed of a daycare in Istanbul. The night before, after finishing Kittredge's nastiness, I dreamed a grubby daycare in Los Angeles. Be careful what you read.