Sorry, I haven't posted the last couple of days, I just haven't been in the mood. I know, I know, you're not supposed to wait until the mood strikes you to write but it's right before Christmas, and the kids will be home next week, and all the knitting needs to be finished, and I haven't even begun to bake, and my sciatic is driving me to distraction, so it hurts to sit a long time... I have a world of excuses, don't I? The truth is, I just haven't put myself into the chair. It's quiet at work today so I've done today's art prompt and I hope to do the past two day's prompts this afternoon.
December 16--Louis John Rhead, Woman with Peacocks. Feeling like a bridesmaid, Ursula walked down the garden path behind a pair of peacocks. The birds' feathered trains swept up leaves from the path and dragged through the droppings, making her glad that her dress did not touch the ground. The peacocks ruled the garden, shrieking from the tops of the hedges in the mornings. It sounded as if murder were being done, bloody, wretched disemboweling and limb removal at its loudest. As a new bride, Ursula had awoken in a fright, clutched Edward's arm and trembled. He patted her hand like a fond father and mumbled, "S'only the damned peacocks, m'dear," as he drifted back to sleep. But she could never go back to sleep so she would rise, pull on a robe, and ring down to have Bates bring a pot of coffee to her salon where she wrote letter and read until a more reasonable arising time.
Eh. It's okay for someone whose fingers are freezing. Time to go heat up my soup. Stay warm!
--Barbara
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