I picked up a handful of horse chestnuts a few days ago. I always do that at the start of Fall, because they are A Sign of good things coming. When I was little it was something everybody did. Every kid in the neighbourhood collected pocketsful, and many of us kept them for months, in a stolen pantyhose, usually, under our beds or dangling from the windowsill. If they didn't rot, and we hadn't forgotten they were there, we'd usually plant them.

I put them in a bowl and put the bowl on my desk. Some of them were still in their husks (the prickly things). This morning, the last one of them was... well, look.

I will have to remember to plant that one.

And now, for the sake of our sanities, and our faith in the Universe (at least insofar as cute fuzzy things are concerned) I give you a cute dog being angsty.

That's my sister's dog. Sorry. "Rat," as the other dogs call her. Her name is Georgie. (Georgina.) Her life, as you can tell, is gruelling and tragic.



I never would have had any meaning
I never would have made anything beautiful
I never would have known I had power,
the way I do.
I would have stopped believing in magic,
let it fade away, like other people do,
and I think I would have been weaker,
except for you.