My window AC is in the right hand dormer window, so the cold air blows down the hallway and drops down the stairwell- hurray for physics!- and renders my downstairs blessedly cool when I come into it from the unseasonable Florentine-related mug. (Every time I see that name I think it's about the city, and it never is. Also how did English ever manage to turn Firenze into Florence? That's even more tone-deaf than most of our transcriptions.
The Indian Gardener's Son's house is only fitfully occupied and the grass of the front lawn is lush and rank and a good foot high (30.5 cm). Only, this evening as I passed, someone who looks very much like the Indian Gardener himself was out mowing it, while a young man who is very definitely not the Indian Gardener's Son raked it all up. And I thought, really they should have used sheep, only sheep shit as well. And aren't allowed in the city.
My current reading is Hopkinson's Brown Girl in the Ring, Hurston's Tell My Horse, and (compulsively since last night) Ng's Under the Pendulum Sun. Without getting into actual horror, three more oogey-making books I'm not likely ever to read together again. Sun is the oogiest by far, possibly because the language reads ever-so-slightly off to me. 'Bored from'? I put this down to Ng being from Hong Kong, which may also be why her Fae also feel just that little bit out of true from the British tradition-- the later one, Lud-in-the-Mist and Jonathan Strange. Of course, taking them from a profoundly Christian and missionary pov *is* a departure. Few people who write Victorians seem to consider religion at all, but for a large number of people then it *mattered*.