Matthew sometimes accuses Mozzie of falling into her slug pose. She will lay herself down the length of your legs, stretch her head flat and tuck her paws invisibly under herself and luxuriate luxuriously. Both girls do this, but Mozzie, says Matthew looks like a slug. A grey, furry slug. I protest vehemently on her behalf every time, of course, because 'a grey furry slug' sounds like it should be mouldering on a compost heap, and Mozzie does not moulder. She smolders. And she luxuriates as she does it.
It's been a whole week since I was last able to go for a run -- every time I have thought, Ah yes, now might be the hour, I have been headed off by poor weather, snuggly cats or an unusual streak of prioritising my deadlines over things I actually enjoy.
Even though I announced to Matthew that this week I would be 'taking it easy', I have thus far finished up and sent off three freelance projects, sewn up three Sock-Perfect WIP bags and read most of Dark Wanton for a third time. I have also been eating my weight in popcorn, cabbage and half-price Green&Blacks chocolatey chocolate ice cream, so it is no wonder I'm left feeling slightly shakey, dehydrated and in need of exercise!
Like a sluggish slug.
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