A runaway bunny appeared in our yard the other morning. White and fluffy with lop ears, it obviously had owners, but as to who or where, I had no clue. To be honest, I wouldn't have minded it staying but it was nibbling my new spring growth in the garden. So I went out and introduced myself and it eventually allowed me near enough to stroke and then grab. After a very brief struggle, it stayed still in my arms and I brought it inside. The dog met us at the door with the happiest look on her face: all her dreams had just come true. "It's for me! It's for me!" she shouted for joy as she bounced up and down. It was soon apparent to her than the rabbit was actually for me, so she rushed outside happily to catch one of her own, giving me a chance to hustle the bunny upstairs into the bathroom to await an owner. I figured a little cottontail could do the least damage there as far as munching and pelleting. After a morning of asking around, someone finally turned up at the door to claim it. A mother and her two children whisked it away gratefully (the little boy kept saying, "Wasn't it nice of her to take care of him?" As if he'd expected me to be mean to a widdle wabbit) and another adventure ends well.

Yesterday a freezing fog hung thick all day in our area. Every outline, from twigs on trees, to blades of grass and forgotten cobwebs was individually outlined in pure white frost. While lovely to look at, it was bitterly cold; the heat was off in the house when I got home from work and I never recovered from the chill. Even today I still have a little residual shiver. I think maybe one of my houseplants got frostbite; the poor thing wilts listlessly today. The daffodils rolled over and played dead, but in the slightly warmer temperatures today (compared to yesterday it's practically balmy) they are frolicking again.

Partner got me some French piano music from the turn of the twentieth century: Satie and Debussy. The word I use to describe them: Weird. Ok, even Bach can be weird but at least when he's not making sense, he's still sticking to form. These late French composers don't really have forms. Satie doesn't like key signatures, time signatures, tempos, or any kind of notation at all whatsoever. It seems more like rambling impromptu stuff rather than actual music written down for other people to play. And Debussy...don't get me started. He writes using three staves; I can't decide if the music is meant to be played by two people or a three-armed megamonkey. And I'm neither.

Partner's laptop is offline for the time being and there is a marked improvement in internet loading times. I bet the rest of the computer processes are speeded up too though I haven't tried them yet. He clogs up the network with his constant downloading of very large music files. He's done it for so long, I'd forgotten how fast the connection really ought to be.

The first of my many daffodils opened today. I've had three crocuses make an appearance--I'm hoping for more. I planted them in the lawn last year. The frogs in the pond are pairing up. And I had the most peculiar feeling as I waited for my laundry to dry outside...a feeling I haven't had in many months: a sudden urge to visit the garden center. It was such a strong compulsion I couldn't resist and returned with several packets of seeds, a few bags of gladiolas, and a sack of potting compost.

A very unsightly hole marks the back of my hand where a big drop of hot grease splattered me at work. It blistered, broke, and made a near-perfect circle, but it looks like a disreputable injury. Rather like a cigarette burn or something. I was cooking about twenty steaks on the griddle during the dinner time rush and grease was flying and a particularly pernicious globule struck. I can remember shaking my hand and seeing an angry red mark, but not thinking much of it at the time. I've had plenty of time to ponder it since. Last time I burnt myself badly (a fiery hot potato exploded in the palm of my hand) I applied ice for several hours and escaped a blister.