In sifting through and whittling down my inbox at work, I discovered that a letter I had created will soon be converted into a template for all of the secretaries to use. (That plus too many dollars will buy me not-my-favorite hot cocoa at Starbucks.)
What is my favorite hot cocoa, you ask? Currently, 3/8 of a block of Abuelita (Mexican hot chocolate) and 10-12oz of milk in a tallish mug, nuked in three stages as follows: two minutes at half power, stir, two more minutes at half power, stir again, two final minutes at half power, stir like crazy, spray a nice swirl of ReddiWip on top, then sip and feel those old bones start to thaw.
I've begun reading a YA novel on my Kindle, as palate cleanser from Howards End. It's not much of a success as a palate cleanser. Stepping up momentarily upon my Victorian/Edwardian soapbox, I do not believe the S-word and the B-word belong in YA novels, regardless of how actual YA's may choose to speak.
I'm nearing the end of season two of Grantchester, and my phone is currently in the charger. The last couple of episodes have been rather dark. By "rather" I mean that the vicar, his unhappily married female friend, and the policeman have each had a meltdown, and when I plugged my phone in there'd been a fistfight and a shouting match.
So I read a few chapters of the YA novel and am waiting for a batch of StoveTop to be edible. And then I'm going to spend three or four hours in the 1950's, hoping for a little sunshine in Old Blighty.
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