The gardenias have now indeed bloomed. I saw them -- the little white blossoms full of odious vapors. They are real. I wondered if the gardenia scent I smelled a few days ago had come from the mere buds. An early warning? Or, more likely, a threat! Oh, fleurs de mal!
I ate too large a dinner last night. A tragic recipe accident led to the overproduction of something that does not keep well, and in the absence of sufficient mouths, rather than let it go to waste, I performed an ill-advised act of over consumption, compounding my original error. The result has been an unwonted turgidness of the gastric region, which continues to plague me even at this moment, despite my having forgone my usual midnight meal. I resolve in future to pay greater attention in the kitchen.
The day which draws nigh is destined to bring a return of those higher temperatures from which we have enjoyed but a brief respite. Though I will miss the merely balmy afternoon in which I basked Friday, the change will at least make possible the resort to artificial cooling, and thus greater indoor comfort for myself and for Sluggo. Currently, I am delighting in a morning air that is altogether bracing, though, when I fetched the newspaper, I noticed that the side which had lain against the pavement for a mere fifteen minutes was quite warm to the touch. I wonder that the streets are not covered with basking snakes. I was almost tempted to curl up there for a moment, myself, to enjoy the contrast between warm ground and chilly air.
I am uncertain why my verbiage displays a manner so florid this morning, but my suspicion falls on those damned gardenias. I fear that their malign odor may be drawn forth in great quantity by the coming day's heat. My windows shall surely be closed, and remain so, lest the saccharin and shameless scent invade my dreams.