So there have been things I want to write about, have wanted to write about, for months. And I haven't quite gotten around to it. Heck, I still have my New Zealand pictures and journal (diary?) from December. But none of it got me off my duff and writing...

... until tonight. And, as usual, it's the smallest things that sometimes strike you the hardest. So there's this book called Seabiscuit, right? (In school they taught me to underline titles, and I did underline that, but I decided I like it a lot better in italics) It's about, well, Seabiscuit. No, he's a horse. Well, was. Anyway, it's by this woman whose name I can't remember and can't look up, even to put in my books I've read spreadsheet, because the 'net isn't behaving and Lindsay's grandma read it and loved it. So her mom read it and then Lindsay did.

Well, I suppose I should say she started to read it. A couple of months ago. And she's on page 150 (not quite, actually, but a nice little white lie to help her out isn't always a bad thing) out of, I dunno, 350 or so I guess. So a few days ago I picked it up and started reading it and I liked it a lot. So I read it in 3 or 4 days (despite Lindsay's exceptionally cute complaints about me not being allowed to read it until she finished) and I still liked it a lot.

Anyway, tonight I walked into the bedroom and Lindsay had fallen asleep with the book open on her chest. This isn't a terribly uncommon occurrence, but after ribbing her about it for the past few days (the main reason she's only on page 150, you see, is that she falls asleep a half page into her reading) it was really funny. So I laughed and she woke up and looked a bit sheepish. She picked it back up and started reading.

I went into the bathroom. Mere seconds later (this was no melbourne-ian visit) I came back out and... she was asleep with the book flat on her chest again. I really should've gone and gotten the camera, but instead I laughed and she woke up.

She'll finish sometime before the turn of the century, most likely.

Doug's thoughts on nothing in particular