I’m still not feeling all that well, but I do feel a slight improvement this morning. Fingers crossed! It’s gray and rainy with a constant drizzle. I’d much prefer lots of rain as we truly need it, but no, it’s just damp, damp, damp.
I hung around the house yesterday, feeling out of sorts and whiny (lucky Don). I read and spent too much time reading about His Orangeness and tweeting in response to his insane tweets. It accomplishes nothing, I know, but it did make me feel better. I scrolled through Instagram and generally killed time. Later in the day, I watched the Red Sox for a bit and watched the second of two episodes of Luther on Netflix. This series, starring Idris Elba, is excellent. I’ve seen the previous seasons and have urged Don to watch them, but he hasn’t so far. So when I heard that the latest season, which is really only two episodes, had come to Netflix, I used a couple of evenings when Don wasn’t here to watch them. So, so good! (I have a crush on Idris Elba. Don’t tell Don.)
Another moonflower opened yesterday:
The buds emerge from the purple, what would you call it? Covering? Casing? I’m not sure what the correct word is, but the combination of purple and green is gorgeous.
There are so many buds on the vines that I fear an early frost. So far, I don’t see one predicted for the next week or two. Come on out, flowers!
I planted this bed rather late in the spring. Next year, I’ll plant on time and hopefully the flowers will emerge in late August/early September.
I don’t want to ignore the morning glories! They’re still blooming and I love them.
I’ve been reading a book I got from the library. It was recommended in the New York Times Book Review. It’s called Under the Harrow, by Flynn Berry. It’s a murder mystery that takes place in England, though Ms. Berry is American. She’s a young writer and a good writer – she writes lovely and evocative prose. However, this book suffers from what I call the Gone Girl Syndrome, which seems to be the flavor of the moment for young writers. The Gone Girl Syndrome occurs when a writer skillfully spins a complicated plot, with lots of twists and turns – all good – but creates characters the reader (me) doesn’t really like, making it very difficult to care about any of them. So I find myself reading the book from a distance; admiring the author’s skill, but with a clinical detachment that surely isn’t what I should feel when reading a mystery.
It’s a fairly quick read, so I’m going to finish it. I’m engaged enough to want to know who the murderer is, but the characters are thoroughly unlikeable.
Ah, well. Maybe this fad will end soon?