I bumped into my neighbour on the way home this evening. She's seventeen and too cool for school (or rhymes), whereas I am twenty-nine and have embraced my inner nerd with such fervour that I may have broken the inner nerd's ribs (or costae spuriae, to be precise). The otherwise insuperable barrier of cool-nerdth incompatibility, however, we have transcended thanks to our shared affection for her late dog, Bailey.
So, there we were, bumping into each other on our way home, and naturally talk turns to the subject du jour, my New Year Detox Program (which began, just in case you're interested, sixty-six hours ago, and has so far resulted in no fewer than seventeen lucid hallucinations of sticky date pudding soaked in kahlua). I regail her with very interesting facts about quinoa, which I have eaten for breakfast three mornings in a row, and begin a lurid account of today's lunch - three apples, a bunch of celery, a handful of cashews and a capsicum - when she says, "My boyfriend proposed to me last night in the car."
And that's the end of the story. The moral is: never talk to seventeen-year-olds about quinoa.
In other news, manuscript for the book what I've been editing on Mr W. Blake got sent orf today. I am now awaiting response from publisher: make it shorter, longer, footnotier, with a Russian accent.