Sitting in the dark, baby, it's an art

Earlier this evening spatch informed me of the tradition of drinking a health to Tolkien on his birthday, so we toasted the Professor with elderflower tonic water, which seemed like something that hobbits will like when they get around to inventing cocktail culture.

Autolycus remains a beautiful cat, stronger than his failing body. He purrs so loudly that he can be heard over the phone even when he's not specifically on the call. I woke this morning to find him lying in my arms like a kitten nestled into a mama cat. Things mostly are cat hospice around here. As long as he wants it, we are supporting him. In the meantime we reassure Hestia of how loved she is even as everyone's schedules go to hell.

I understand that the film version of Russell Hoban's Turtle Diary (1975) is highly regarded and it does have a terrific cast, but when one of the novel's protagonists is described by the other as a "tall hopeless-looking man with an attentive face and an air of fragile precision like a folding rule made of ivory," I can't help wishing it had been filmed in a year when Bill Nighy would have been a shoo-in for the part.

I am having a lot of trouble acclimating to the year.