Hebetude.  Lassitude.  They've all settled in at Chez Dean, and the animals and I are helpless to take up arms against them.  We're all just rather lying about, shuffling from room to room only when absolutely necessary.

And yet, despite the torpor, I finished the other "beach" sock, wrapped up a Noro scarf I had also been working on at the beach, and finished Gentlemen and Players (which contained quite a twist, let me tell you.)  I'll be casting on a dishcloth at some point today, and have already begun the "I" book: John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany, which I began once, but did not finish.


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