Cambridge, late July. If you ever come here for a visit, I'd suggest avoiding the summer months if at all possible. I sorely wanted to snap a shot of a blue-shirted and yellow-backpacked group of Italian teenagers whose English tour guide had stopped them under an enormous new scaffold on Trinity Lane and was asking them, "You all know who Isaac Newton was, right?" "Isaac who?" one called back. It was at that moment that I decided to cut through Clare on the way home; somehow, perhaps because Clare has fewer graduates whose names trip off of tongues, fewer groups parade through there. And how else would I have seen the King's cows calmly ignoring these punters?
Today: 566 words. You only have to write for an hour, I told myself. And yet I still almost got out of the day without doing it. But: I did 80 good minutes, which would seem to suggest that I'll get there eventually, wherever "there" is.