Mysterious boldness

Of yesterday's typeface, not the content. It wasn't intentional, I had some wrangling with the font size drop bar and gave up in mystification. Last night I finished Elizabeth Bowen's Collected Stories, and have but one novel of hers left at my disposal, The Little Girls, since I haven't been able to find every one of them, nor her essays. Dare I observe, after raving about her for weeks, that not every tale was successful? Fantastic command of the language, and intriguing idiosynchrasies in her usage, but some of the stories were a bit flat. However, I now see from whence came many of her images and themes, and how she refined them over the years.

Today marks one year since I began this blog. It's still plain and rather in a brown wrapper, but that doesn't bother me. I leave the excellent photography to my beloved spouse, as well as the snappier prose style. I intend to persist, wending my eccentric path through the increasingly thorny and hostile wastelands of this world. Hm, are those purple thorns?
Had an uncharacteristically late climbing gym session, from around 5:30-7:30 this evening. They were having a shoe demo, so it seemed horrendously crowded; no routes available that you wanted to try, all potluck. Fun to catch up with some of my women friends, but generally not as much fun as the earlier hours have been.
One friend loaned me a novel she was keen on, and I'll start it tonight.