Carry wood, chop water

I moved about a cord of split oak and bay to a wood pile behind the house yesterday and today, in between digging in the adobe, supervising kids, editing the book, blah blah blah.

I've looked back on June and it's been a whole month of me doing too much, passive-aggressively complaining or reflecting about it but still doing too much with some kind of "this is just short-term, folks" lip service to any members of the reading audience who are still there but rolling their eyes in exasperation at me.

I could just have written today "more of the same" or "see above" and added to that Ibid. Don't ya love "Ibid"? I remember reading books of quotations and Welsh reference stuff and seeing little ibids all over the place. It's like Anon. I think there's a poem in there, somewhere. Or a children's story - about Ibid and Anon and their trip to the seaside, maybe.

Or even, with their friends (like a gang of super heroes) "The Continuing Adventures of Ibid & Anon, et al."

Or maybe, eg., something even more cryptic, ie. more mysterious: "The Misc. Etc. Ibid, Anon, et. al."

Ok. Enough of that silliness.