Up early so I have an opportunity to catch up with my studies. Conceit…no, that’s a poetic device popular in the 17th century although one such conceit is called Petrarchan conceit so I’m assuming Roman origins.
Coffee drunk, dishwasher unloaded, croissants in the oven, but where is my favourite pen? Attic? No, and every other place I could think of yielded nothing. Now I have three Cross pens that shine chromily so I should have been able to find at least one. Trouser pocket? No.
Eureka…found one. Work avoidance over
odespinner 