mild excitement

I'm trying out half-days at work, so far going reasonably well. With the aid of a Restricted Area Permit, Mark drops me off at the mailroom door (no long crutch-journey over slippery tile floor, yay!) and I wait for someone to let me into the freight elevator, which takes me to just outside Tech Services. Then I scooch my leg under the desk to rest on a low-as-it-goes wheelie-chair, and I sit on a non-wheelie-chair.
Working only 4 hours, I have not yet had the grand experiment of using the office washroom, and having to decide whether the handicapped or non-handicapped stall is the better choice.

Well, today, only a few minutes after I'd got settled, the fire alarm went.
A brief pause while everyone waits to hear whether it's 'someone went out the wrong door' type of alarm, or 'someone hit the wrong button' alarm. The first kind has a far more annoying noise but is usually shut off faster. This time it was a steady BRRRRINNNG BRRRRINNNG, so we must evacuate for safety's sake.
Evacuation, of course, is done down the fire exit, a wide concrete staircase.
Have I mentioned that I still require a spotter to go up or down the three steps to the garden?
So I opt for the Refuge Area, designated by a blue sign on the wall with a the Handicapped wheelchair logo. Kathy kindly has someone haul up the chair from the landing below so I don't have to prop myself against the wall. Kathy and Sherry promise to inform responsible people of my location and to send me a couple of hunky firemen. I sit down and fire up the Kobo ereader so I can ignore the brrrrinnng brrrrinnng.
Note: If I had believed this to be a real fire, I would have grabbed someone and had them spot me down the two flights of stairs. But I was betting this to be another accidental alarm, which we have rather often.
I am still reading an Agatha Christie short story when, yes, a handsome young fireman pops his head in and asks if I'm okay, and would I rather wait where I am. On being told yes, he goes back out and reports that he has located 'the girl with crutches' (I'm a girl? I feel so young!).
Shortly after that, he and another fireman, both sufficiently hunky for my requirements, let me know that I can be the first one back inside, and we chat briefly about sports injuries and crutches and the concept of 'Stupid Time' (credit: Mark Shier).

The rest of the day was uneventful. I had a nap from about 2 pm to about 5 pm, but I can't blame that on the excitement, since I had a similar nap on Sunday (11 am to 3 pm?) when nothing at all had happened. I was a bit disappointed, since I'd gone most of a week without an afternoon nap and thought I was past that stage.

Social Life:  Besides our regular Thursday night dinners, I've had visits from Peter and Laura, with all the younger kids; from Michael and Susan Walsh; from Kellii; from Stephen and Judy; and dinners with Joan with Rowan and Tess and with MC. So I'm not pining away in solitude, even though I can't really get out to see anyone.

Writing:  It's a bit of a relief to be rearranging and revising instead of writing from outline.  I'm mucking about with Storyline One of Cost of Silver, making it less episodic by bringing some of the later story threads in earlier.
The trouble with this, though, is that I've worked hard to show the passage of seasons and to root scenes in the ongoing rural tasks. So you might have the constable trying to recruit soldiers while the harvest is going on and farmers desperately need reapers, for instance.
Which means that when I have to move a scene to another part of the year, I have to change all those clever little seasonal touches. Which is a grand pain. Right now I'm agonising over moving a scene which has to take place in the spring to the year before. Which means rewriting a nice little bit of scene-setting in another sequence which would clearly take place in the summer. Which one to change? Argh.


Garden:  I'm sad that I can't get out and do any weeding or planting or digging or anything. Mark has been wonderful about taking photos (they're up on my Facebook page) of the roses as they come out, but it's still frustrating. We've been trying to figure out where to plant my new Abraham Darby rose so that it will get sun (damn you, city tree!), and it will probably involve moving a big stack of bricks, which I feel rather guilty about foisting on Mark.

Here's one of the flowers, cut and scenting the kitchen table.