You may well ask. I've been VERY busy, trying to finish a book so I can start the prep on another one. I have a penultimate draft, I think. All it takes is time. Actually, it takes more than that but time is what is negotiable and disappears. So here I am, sticking my head above the - - it's not ground, it's a bog - above the bog, taking a sighting, figuring out where to go from here. Not that I haven't seen or thought a few things. By the end of the day, no, by late afternoon, my head is foggy and my brain is mushy but I can't go to sleep and I can't go out because I'm a prisoner of my project and because I'm too physically tired. So I read and think, in a loopy way. One night I read Jane Gardam's new book "Last Friends". Delicious. Must re-read the other two in the trilogy ("Old Filth" and "The Man in the Wooden Hat"). One night I re-read the book I'm working on and put it into reasonable pagination, set up for fair copy. (Still messed up in one section of different drafts, have to check for repetition - always a danger with computers, less so with physical cut-and-paste.) Watched a couple of old movies and welcomed the commercials because I read stuff, like Candace Savage's "The Geography of Blood", related to the place where I'm going to hibernate in October: Eastend, Saskatchewan. And a book about happiness, very Keynesian. As for the old movies, they are time machines, both disappointments and revelations.When I look in the mirror and try to remember who this old person is, I think I'm the only one who has changed. Not so. Actors in old movies are the best reminders we have about aging. Where does the time go? Right now, it's gone for the nonce and I'm going swimming.