Today I have so much to do it isn't even funny. I have dinners to plan, dinners to shop for, dinners to cook; I have ten pounds of Sevilles that must be turned into marmalade; none of this can happen before the chaos that is the kitchen has been converted to some kind of order. I have a garden bed to declot. And, oh yes, there's that writing thing. I'm supposed to do that, a bit, every now and then. In the interstices.
But! I am poaching my pig's brains anyway. (These are a side-effect of the insane visit to the Chinese supermarket on Chinese New Year: I saw them sitting on a shelf, and grabbed.) I shall fry them in butter with sage leaves and eat them on toast for my lunch. Because I can.
[EtA: and it's SETI day! I nearly forgot. And I don't have time to go. And I'm going anyway, just because...]