Kage Baker did not do perky. Or cute. Winsome, darling, anything requiring the head tilted to one side and the suggestion of dimples: anathema to her. This despite the fact that as a small child her hair was a mass of copper ringlets and Momma favoured ruffles on little girls – aside from a congenital weakness for cool shoes, Kage was having none of it.

Consider the look on her baby portrait’s face. That was not a twee kid.

I have been known to try for a stiff upper lip; even to stagger along with a bored fox in my tunic, complaining that it wants down. Sometimes one just does not want to admit one has reached a stopping point. But this morning … well, I don’t think I’ve managed to reach a starting point.

I’ve made coffe (and am drinking it) and I even have a load of laundry in. But my bed still looks like a major migration went through it. Something besides me seems to have slept in my hair, and possibly in my mouth. My head is filling up like a balloon with mucous. I hope  it’s mucous – could be custard. Could be an invasion of squids. Could be my brain dissolving into primal ooze. But there is no perky in me.

This blog may be the intellectual high point of my day. I will write, working on Marswife: despite a suspicion that whatever I write will also be snot, and have to be wiped up and redone later. Mostly, though, I am going to emulate the great and wise Kage Baker- who chose to be a whiny invertebrate on days like this, lest her zombie state communicate itself too much to the work … it’s time for movies. Books. Knitting. Whinging.

I don’t do perky either.