I can hardly believe how un-fussed I've been, with Christmas rumbling toward us like a giant rock slide. I've filled out some cards, and done a little mild shopping, and made a batch of cookies. But on the whole, this has been a low-key week. Paul's been marauding among my books, and yesterday the three of us launched into a comic family critique of The Good Life, Scott and Helen Nearing's back-to-the-land brag-fest--a remarkably annoying polemic that somehow we'd all managed to avoid opening before yesterday. So there's also been family fun, Potter-Birtwistle style.

It's cold here this morning--9 degrees--and my standard red bathrobe/black coffee combo feels especially pleasant. I'm finishing up another rereading of Byatt's The Virgin in the Garden, and am thinking of starting a biography next--possibly Margaret Fuller's, possibly Mary Queen of Scots' or Eleanor of Aquitaine's. This is what happens when my bookshelves are revived: I have a sudden hankering to dip into fat histories.

Otherwise, I have nothing particular on the schedule: a little yoga, a little grocery shopping, some gossip with my kid, and an oversized volume or two. I hope your day is as peaceable.