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The field - British SF, British fandom, SF in general, fandom in general - lost a much loved part of itself this morning with the passing of Robert Holdstock.

Being the lazy bastard that I am, I never got around to reading the many of his books I had bought. So today I am feeling guilty, as well as sad.

We live very close together, although some people will tell you that this is no real closeness. And so, I tiptoe around, knowing that I can't fake mourning (that would be disrespectful) but also feeling an unwarranted sense of unease for my ordinary, cheerful tweets. So many of my friends are grieving, and here I am talking about cakes.

I am sorry for my friends, whose number and real pain tells me all that I need to know about what kind of man has gone. It is not a great comfort for anybody right now to reflect on how precious, and how rare, that kind of thing is.

May we all aspire today to be as missed as he is. Better to leave a void by dying than by looking away in annoyance.

37.7? You must be kidding me. I feel wretched, yes, but not 37.7 wretched. There must be a mistake.

That I am feeling quite inordinately miserable. A simple cold should not make one feel so wretched, but it does.

Beecham's doesn't seem to make much difference, but that's because I slurp a new cup before the old cup can fade. I would probably feel a lot MORE miserable, hard as this is to imagine, if I didn't.

Water seems to help. Hot milk with honey, too. Dying is starting to look like a mildly better option than going to sleep at this point, all the same.

I have been looking at the list of symptoms for hypothyroidism again, and recognizing me again.

And yet, my hormones have been assayed all the way to Rome and back, and my thyroid function seems to be utterly, utterly normal.

I am not reassured. I was reading about it today and thought, what if I have something else - iodine deficiency in my diet? thyroid hormone resistance? Because, hell, too many damn things point to that.

I know this is silly, but I am not happy approaching my doctor about this AGAIN.

And yet, God, I spend my days wishing this damn brain fog would rise. That I might get back the normal energy that allows a normal human to do TWO any things on a day - say, driving to a convention and then going to a panel. I have missed most of my CBT course because I have been too tired to go after four hours cleaning cat cabins. Yes, I am unfit, yes, it's hard work... but really? I am forty, healthy and strong. WTF?

I have started taking vitamin D, because I have read here, there and everywhere that it is suspected of staving off colds and flus, protecting you against cancer, and generally lowering mortality rates for all causes. And being a mediterranean type living in London, who never goes out anyway, I am pretty damn certain to have vitamin D deficiency anyway.

Well, we shall see. It would certainly explain why I seem to be sick all the time. It may well be nothing, but at least it's not bad for you.

But did any doctor ever take a look at me, and tell me, why don't we have a titration of 25(OH)D levels in your blood? Nope.

ETA: very intriguing article on Vitamin D and influenza here: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2279112/?tool=pmcentrez

james_nicoll on the Canadian health system:

Or to put it another way, we could pay a guy who owns a chainsaw to take care of those 700 kids, pay him $125 million per baby to do it and get the same general outcome as the American system.

I'm sure plenty on my friendlist have installed a cat flap at one point: how do you do it? I want to install one on the window of my study - do I have to call a glazier? Do I have to buy the thing to cut the glass with? Can I rent it? Is it easy to do?

The sun rises, after a night of storm and violent rain, the cats are lounging around purring, AND I HAVE A GODALMIGHTY SORE THROAT DAMMIT.

I am really really tired of being sick. End of line.

Not a brilliant start of the day for me: I woke up groggy after finishing a job at two o'clock or therabout - partly thanks to VMWare Fusion blowing up on me, thanks so much VMWare - set out for the tube already late for the shelter, and realized at the entrance that the 20 pound note I had put in my pocket was no longer there.

Went back with eyes peeled, but no 20 pounds. Came back with Oyster card and eyes peeled so further back that you could see the back of my retinas, still no 20 pounds.

A hundred yards from the shelter I noticed a very poorly pigeon flapping on the pavement. I thought about it a little, went to the shelter, asked for advice, and after a brief betrayal of a less than pure-gold animalist soul ("There's a dying pigeon out there!" "Good!") the receptionist told me to bring it in by any means. I took a towel and went to collect the pigeon.

I picked it up and holding it in the towel I felt pretty sure that this was not a pigeon who was pining for the fjords any more, it was not a pigeon that was tired after a long squack, in fact that was an ex-pigeon, who had gone to join the choir agelicus, had passed on, had gone to meet its maker, and would have been pushing up the daisies if it wasn't wrapped in cotton.

However the vet came out and took the bundle, and I went away feeling virtuos, although "I saved a dead pigeon!" doesn't sound so good.

I busily cleaned cat cabins for four solid hours, somewhat distracted by the fact that the blue block is next to the kitten garden where three kittens were burning off an amount of calories I'd have sworn could only be stored by about three times as much mass as they had combined, but when I went upstairs for a cup of coffee I met the vet nurse and he told me that the pigeon wasn't dead, it was in shock, and that the vet had managed to revive it.

I am dead chuffed. Although sciamanna pointed out that if I'd done that in Milan (or even worse, Venice) I'd likely be shot.

To illustrate what a REAL full-blown animal lover is like, the cattery staff supervisor showed real worry for the pigeon's partner (apparently they pair for life).

I came back home, ate, fell on the sofa in the usual stupor, and woke up with a nasty nasty nasty sore throat. I have, predictably, also a bit of a fever. Ohhh right, that was why I have been feeling so crappy the last few days then. What joy.

BTW - the Mayhew is chock-full of kittens right now, very unusually. This is normally not kitten season, but they are apparently deluged with them. So if you want a tiny feline, or feel up to fostering, they are looking both for adoptees and fosterers right now.

You all who buy my prints at conventions - I am incredibly grateful of course, but you do know that you can buy them at Photobox all year long, yes? There's a link on my LJ page.

I am pondering selling calendars as well. I printed about a dozen for my relatives and they seem to have been a raging success, at least with my dad.

After my burst of productivity two days ago, I am now completely stuck. Bah.

I asked Alex to read what I have written so far, but I know already some of the faults: the first chapter is incredibly long and slow-moving, AND it doesn't manage to convey necessary background information.

This is, in fact, a problem with how this book is structured: it is a story with not much action. There is plenty of blowing up things and blood and gore before and after, but the story itself is about a guy who has a chance to become a good and happy man and fails to take it. All the action is in his mind. And it takes place in a college. He doesn't even have a love interest. Well ok, well, he does, but he doesn't know it.

One realization: when you start by being explicit about people's racial diversity, you then need to notice everybody's skin color and you realize you have lost the default. It's a good thing, but it feels dreadfully in-your-face to the reader, I think.

Whatever is wrong with me keeps being wrong. I ate some nice baba ganoush at noon and I have been feeling unwell and nauseous ever since.

Also, I am struggling both with writing, and feeling that I am writing crap, and with my counsellor's good sense observation that I have struggled too hard with depression to trigger it back by forcing myself into the frame of mind of the protagonist of my novel.

Both going on and giving up make me feel very upset and unwell.

I took Zip to the vet today for her annual vaccinations and checkup. I mentioned the pooping out of the litter fact, and the vet went with me over the various things that might help reduce the stress of another cat in the house.

The more she talked, the more I realized that Zip really really REALLY no HONESTLY is not happy at having another cat in the house. Even the playing, which I assumed to be good for both of them, is according to the vet a prelude to fighting.

In the end, I asked the vet, in her honest opinion, if I should adopt the other cat permanently. She smiled sadly and said no. If I did, however, there are many things that can be done to reduce the stress.

So here I am anguishing about what to do. I want to adopt Jam - mostly because I love her so much. But I also know that if Zip could, she would put a veto to it.

Jam could, conceivably, find a home. Maybe the best thing is to try to get her back to the Mayhew and see what happens. If she doesn't find a home in a reasonable amount of time, well... then I can think about this some more.

But honestly, my heart sinks at the idea of taking her back. The shelter is a good place, the cats are kept in nice, hygenic cat-friendly cabins with heaters and toys and good food and company - but it is no substitute for a whole house with cushions and warmth and calm and your own very human. And she would almost certainly regress if I brought her back. And despite the fact that she is a gorgeous little animal, her chances of being adopted are not great. She is very shy, and is not spontaneously affectionate even with me, after four months of bonding. She's not an attractive prospect for an adopter - and she has no obvious pity-inducing characteristics.

Ultimately, I know that I want to adopt her for mostly selfish reasons. This is distinct for all the considerations about what would be best for her, what would be best for Zip, etc. I know that objectively, it would be best for Jam to be adopted and it would be best for Zip not to adopt her. My own wish to have Jam around is the last thing I should take into consideration, and yet it makes me feel selfish.

I don't know. It's not as if Zip is suffering horribly, but she is quite clearly a lot less happy than she was. I asked the vet if the situation would improve but she said that with cats it doesn't, usually.

Yesterday, despite failing to make it to the writing group, I managed to drag myself over to Ikea. Ikea is like the safety blanket or the teddy bear for me, I go for reassurance. It's familiar and safe.

But today I failed to go out for groceries, and just huddled home, feeling sort of shaky. I have no idea what is going on here.

I did manage to write 1,000 words today. I am awfully behind in my Nanowrimo, but I am not giving up. Realistically I am not going to finish, but whatever outpouring of productivity I can achieve is good.

Mostly I find myself tormented by various failures on the writing front. Not so much a question of verbiage but things like - writing bores me. It used to be the great pleasure of my life, the thing that reliably made me happy. Now it bores me.

Maybe it is because I am otherwise happier, and I find it hard to write angst as I use to do.

And then... maybe the reason I didn't make it to my writing group is that I read my fellow writer's stories and feel a dreadful lack of purpose. What's the point of this story, I ask myself? But, really, what's the point of any story? Maybe that's why I cannot read fiction any more. I have lost the ability to care even when there isn't a point.

I feel so, so tired.

I don't really feel up to explaining, but I have been strangely distressed all day, and ended up not being able to go to my writing group, and feeling cold, miserable, my hands shaking - all very strange.

Jam likes to perch on the windowsill next to the computer, looking out. Today she let me stroke her, purring and trying to sit on the ledge (which is cold, and too small).

This was unthinkable even just a few days ago.

I moved a chair closer. She was a bit suspicious at first, but is now curled up there.

Jam keeps getting more and more domesticated, if by minuscule increments each day. She now lets me touch her before I give the two of them their breakfast or dinner, provided she is hungry enough. Not every time, but more and more often, I can reach out a hand and she will arch her back and let me catch her tail and let her slid out.

It looks like the nice hand that strokes her when she is lounging under the table or on the sofa, and that she rewards with such purring, is slowly joining up with the Scary Human.

Yesterday I was in bed, watching cat videos on YouTube (as we mad cat ladies do) and one of them was of a very small, very squeaky nursing kitten. Zip was curled up at my feet as usual, and more or less unfazed - she knows by now that my computer makes cat noises now and then.

But at one point I looked to a side and there was Jam, all alert, huge yellow eyes very alarmed. On the one hand, Scary Human, which she does not approach on her own. On the other, Kitten in Distress! She is ten months old by now, and in the wild, she would have had at least a litter of her own. Something in her just would not tolerate a distressed kitten. So there she was, scared by running to the rescue.

I love this little cat.

Anyway, I stopped the distressing kitten noises and when I next looked up, she was stretched out on the bed, trying nonchalantly to inch closer to Zip. I switched the light off very quietly, crawled very quietly under the blanket, and savoured for a bit my feline family resting contentedly on my bed. Then Jam decided that she wanted to play with Zip and they both ran away.

This morning, another shift at the shelter. Now and then I find myself getting all choked up - when I see two sad cats left at the shelter by humans who moved and would not take the cats with them, or by a small kitten with a missing front leg.

Other times, I feel like I am making a difference the lives of these confused, lonely, scared animals. One cat today was a beautiful young tuxedo boy, whom I first saw backed off against the bottom of the cabin. I could see his mouth opening, but could not tell if he was hissing quietly or mewoing.

On closer inspection, he was meowing: specifically, he was begging for company and strokes, because he had been found injured and, as I saw when he moved, one of his back legs had had to be removed.

Whenever I took my hand away, the almost-silent meow of pain came back, so I spent a good half hour perched in a cat cabin, calming him down.

And then there was the white cat who not only ran up to me, nuzzled my ear and wrapped himself around my neck: but proceeded to climb on my head, grip it with both paws, and start grooming me. Poor thing, that can't have been easy.

And the moment when, washing the floor of one of the cabins, I saw Kate pour six or seven tiny kitten into the adjoining cabin, all fluffy, elastic and bumpy.

I am less shattered than I was last week, but just as torn between tenderness and pity.

It also seems likely that they will let me adopt Jam.

You don't need to tell me that you are not doing NaNoWriMo. Really. I mean this. It is not compulsory.

You don't need to tell in detail how supremely unconcerned you are you are not doing NaNoWriMo. I don't need to. I wasn't assuming the opposite.

You particularly don't need to belligerently tell me how superior you are to such childish pursuits, how tired you are with the whole thing, how silly the whole notion is.

This is my second year of doing Nanowrimo and I will probably not do the required 50,000 words. I am not shattered about it. Last year I found doing it very productive, very liberating, and in the end a lot of fun. It's a good way to free my creativity, and proved me among other things that when cornered I can indeed produce a plot, characters and acceptable prose.

So if you are not doing NaNoWriMo, it's ok. It really is. It is just as OK to do it.

You know, you can blame Gordon Brown for a lot of things, and I do. But a) as Mitch Benn pointed out on Twitter, he's "trying to run the country under relentless criticism AND GOING BLIND" b) I saw the supposed misspelling. They weren't misspellings. He doesn't close the top of his "o"s, as tons of other people do, and he went a couple of times over the "e" in Jamie.

He took the time to write a condolences letter in longhand. Lots of other people would type it up, print it and sign it. Lots of other people would have a secretary compose it, type it, print it and stamp your signature on it.

There's lots of things wrong with our political class, starting from the attention they pay to the fucking Sun newspaper, but this is ridiculous.

I managed to go for a very satisfactory run today. HOWEVER, that was the sum total of my achievements.

Not only I didn't write word one. I didn't even manage to remember that it was Tun night. Drat. Drat rat tat.

On the other hand, I still seem to have a bit of a fever, so perhaps I should put it down to post-flu tiredness and leave it at that.

I also spent the day fuming about the, wait, how did Chomsky put it?

Noam Chomsky has expressed the view that Derrida uses "pretentious rhetoric" to obscure the simplicity of his ideas. He groups Derrida within a broader category of the Parisian intellectual community which he criticized for, in his view, acting as an elite power structure for the well educated through "difficult writing" and obscurantism. Chomsky has indicated that he may simply be incapable of understanding Derrida, but he is dubious of this possibility.

Or, to quote Searle, who was quoting Foucalt:

He writes so obscurely you can't tell what he's saying, that's the obscurantism part, and then when you criticize him, he can always say, "You didn't understand me; you're an idiot." That's the terrorism part.

.

Seriously - I am exercised more than I can say about the exclusionary language and lack of clarity of some branches of the social sciences. It is not just a passing irritation: it is something that makes me spitting angry as a writer, as a philosopher, and as (to quote Alan Sokal) an old lefty. I am angry at being excluded, in a way that seems deliberate, from accessing a debate that should be open to all, often held between people with ostensibly liberal, progressive agendas.

I spent this morning a the Mayhew, in the cattery, cleaning cat cabins and chatting with cats for four hours.

I don't think I've done my back in as I thought at first, but it's been pretty hard physical work and I came home shattered.

It was, however, hard physical work done with cats and for cats, which made it all much better.

The cats are lovely, some of them vocal in demanding love and attention and play, others silent and sad and purring, others sad and bunched up in a scared ball at the bottom of the cabin. About 70% of them are black: black cats are the last to go, sadly.

Among the characters of the day, Gordon, an old black and white cat who's an obvious favourite of the staff and is given the freedom of the cattery while cleaning is going on. He goes up and down chatting loudly, trying to interest other cats in talking to him.

And the two Fat Boys, two enormous, lovely tuxedo cats, one sweet and outgoing and one cautious and retiring, with thick fur and golden eyes and large pink noses, and my lap was barely enough for one of them.

And then there were these two - Pinky and Sooty. I thought they were kittens, and I only learn through the website that they are mature cats. Usually when there are two cats in a cabin one is more outgoing than the other but these two were both eager for contact and play. Pinky climbed on top of the cabin and there he stayed, surveying the next-door cat benignly. He is one of the most handsome cats I've ever seen.

All in all, despite the wet, the hard work, the rain pouring down, and the fact that the staff are reserved Brits, I am full of warm fuzzy cat-love.