on a winter's sunday i go

So one of my tasks, pre departure for Europe, among the planning of itineraries and other such intricacies, is to find myself a bridesmaid dress. Internets, this is not really my forte. I have a picture of the dress I must match/complement but really, it's not like white is a difficult colour to match/complement so that's not quite as helpful as I was hoping. This weekend just gone, after discovering yet again that I had too much work on hand to leave the house, I decided to try window shopping via the internet. This was not such a good idea. I found dresses, of course — dresses which had no price listed against them (and are therefore automatically out of my price range) and which need to be ordered with up to 16 weeks notice. Oh dear. You can attend a wedding in jeans, right? Totally normal.

On the writing front, I absolutely hate and loathe the faerie novel all of a sudden. Not sure what happened: I was loving it, then not loving it but it was just a bit of a slog, and suddenly it's the worst tripe ever written. If I could be sure it was purely and simply that dreaded middle point, I could forge on ahead knowing the love will return. But alas, I cannot silence the little nagging thought that it could be a symptom of a narrative that's taken the bit between its teeth and dashed off over a cliff in the middle of the night. Which means there'll be a broken neck come morning, and no one likes cleaning up that sort of mess.

So while I wrestle with my inner editor and my inner suck-monkey, who may or may not be in cahoots or at odds, have some more local graffiti. I would dearly like to know what she's advertising, as it were.

(Hey, maybe it's a boutique bridesmaid dress and manuscript writing outfit and all my dreams are answered…?)