Scleroderma. I don’t know exactly what it means, but the word has been teasing the fringe of my brain with its sharp little claws, and I have to acknowledge it, give it the blogging equivalent of a good scratch behind the ears before I can go about other business.
Mr. B’s cat loves attention, which she demands with the world’s rustiest meow. Before I went to the gym this afternoon, I walked around the building to find her meditating in a patch of clover. Knowing me to be a total pushover where pussycats are concerned, she got up and trotted over for a belly rub and a good ten minutes of other caressing. She’s a stocky beast, white and orange, with small ears and a short tail—there must be some Manx somewhere in her ancestry. Mr. B. is wrapped firmly around her pretty paw, and when we come home from church in his truck she recognizes the vehicle from afar and comes out to sit on the verge, waiting for lunch. My exercise pants were liberally dusted with short orange-tipped white hairs when I finished paying my respects to the furry one.
The concert last evening at the cathedral was lovely, although even superbly-performed medieval music (which this was) becomes monotonous after a while, and I found my gaze wandering toward the ceiling, to see that black netting has been installed from nave to choir, probably to keep any loose stones from pelting down on the congregation. The front tower repairs seem to be done, but the roof over the front and the buttresses seem to be still in the process of being shored up after the liberal shaking they received last fall.
A former employee of Intervarsity Press, who knows several of the academic editors still on staff has agreed to read a proposal for Irina’s and my translation. I am also looking into a professional organization for children’s book authors and illustrators, as I have several of those drafted. About a Russian cat, of course.