I read cozy and historical mysteries, a bit of Paranormal/UF, and to mix it up, I read science and gardening books on occasion.
It's been a crap winter here in Melbourne, cold and dreary and drizzly. Today is going to be sunny, and a beautiful 19 degrees (66). I have been looking forward to spending the day in the garden all week. I'd obviously repressed earlier memories of my neighbors.
This is the part that gets a little rant-y, apologies in advance. I generally like kids and my neighbors are actually really quite lovely people; friendly, always willing to help, responsible. They have two girls: 5-ish and 3-ish. The oldest is a bloody nightmare. Spoiled thoroughly with no discipline from her parents, she's always loud, often screaming and will absolutely lose the plot if she doesn't get everything her way.
Normally, I'd be all "there but for the grace of god go I" and thank all that's holy that I only have cats, but they live right next door (it's a semi-detached) so I get to hear her in all her tantrum-y glory. And she's been at it since 8 a.m (it's 9.30 now). Mind you, I haven't even opened the doors or windows yet, so I'm getting all the nightmare from inside my closed up house. Even if she's not screaming (just now it was because her dad was using the weed-wacker and not stopping when she told him to) she yells everything at the top of her lungs - a habit I would have thought she'd have out-grown by now.
So, it seems, no quiet day in the garden and sunshine for me. I guess I should be thankful her dad isn't blaring old Air Supply tunes on his boombox (I am not making this up). I love my house and my garden, but days like this make me want to move.