Playing is for pleasure

I keep running the upcoming week's things-I-have-to-do list through my head. Work, vet, class, class, last class, garage, work. Then there's just a big blank stretch of break. Hols', as they say in Enid Blyton novels.

Or is it hol's? I haven't read an Enid Blyton novel in a long time. When I was about ten, starting them, my mother warned me that Blyton's stories were quite racist, and I kept waiting for that to show up, the swarthy villains and so forth, but it never did. After all the anticipation I was a little disappointed, I think. Is it possible that I was reading politically correct editions? They certainly weren't the ones from my mother's library with their mossy pages and unwelcoming lack of cover illustrations (I was ten), but paperbacks from Vancouver Kids Books, colorful and pocket sized. Come to think of it, two of the jolly child heroes in my nineties edition of "The Secret Island" were rendered as pretty swarthy themselves, and with cute nappy hair. Enid Blyton would have pitched a fit.

Anyway, when I got home last night, Papist hovered in front of my hands for about fifteen minutes, snuffling and licking them. Apparently the combination of bunny, cats, and Juniper was too potent for her to process quickly. Not to be rushed. A drawling "welcome to flavor country", if you will.

I should be more tired. I blame the "natural cola" I had at midnight. Sans caffeine, they tell me, but what the hell is natural cola? Is that a thing? It doesn't taste like one. It tastes like the analogue of a thing. Like "chuckola cola" in Paper Mario 2, which is hip, see, and "with it". See.