Cool, quiet, rainy. The sort of morning which typically one only experienced in the imagined Octobers of one's youth. A bit like living a morning in a Ray Bradbury novel; all small-town America and just a hint, a soupcon of warm-spirited spine-tingling mystery in the air.
I have the shop to myself, listening to the static-laden AM-signal of the local classical radio station. Some Vaughan Williams would be nice, but Elgar or Copland or Debussy would do.
Hairs freshly cut by an only moderately-incompetent barber.
A smooth, rich cup of coffee.
Some more books on which I need to be working, preparing my workshop on Techniques of Mineral Identification, to be held slightly less than two weeks hence.
All in all, could be worse. But for now, I'll enjoy the quiet and the absence of the telephonic overload. I'll watch the delivery vans go by, and wait for the one with parcels for my attention.
And the rain, it raineth down.
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