Small pleasures

[As an aside, before the actual post, I haven't been responding to comments recently. I'm so sorry about that! I really try to make it a point to respond to each, but this summer has been a strange one in terms of online activity and one of the things to get cut has been responses. Fall should see me returning to more regular posting and commenting habits.]

We had a glorious storm yesterday. Everything was turned to slate blue and green and grey. And the air was so full of the smell of rain. There's a great exultation in a really good storm that makes me go all Bronte--want to run outside and stand in it. Or maybe I mean Marianne Dashwood. I didn't, but I wanted to.

Instead I went down to the church bookstore and kept it open, although no one came but delivery men. Mused on the similarity of the bookstore to a fortress against the storm and the fittingness of the same. Connected it to Ely Cathedral--the Ship of the Fens. And then felt slightly embarrassed over the ramblings and Elizabeth Goudge-ness of it all.

The storm is gone this morning and it's currently sunny. I'm eating a fasting burrito (lettice, walnuts, onions, refried beans and salsa) and considering a Course of Action. I'm hoping today will be a good writing day (I've been revising my 2007 NaNoWriMo novel) but if it's going to be, I have to actually sit down and do it.

This has strayed a bit far from the title, hasn't it? The storm is a pleasure, the burrito is a pleasure. The writing is sometimes a pleasure, but most of the time it's just hard work. Harriet Vane and Lord Peter are a pleasure, but not a simple one. On the contrary, they seem to grow in complexity every time I re-read the wonder that is Gaudy Night. Which I did recently, in case you couldn't tell.