# The last few leaves cling for dear life to the tree at the back of our house, a last bastion of autumn. Whilst sitting in the office I have watched as the colours changed and the leaves fell, it seems only a few weeks ago that it was full, green, vibrant, but I know it is longer and that I am remembering through the current Covid induced skewing of time.
Surprisingly, the weekend seemed longer than usual, it feels like more than two days since I have set at this desk. Weekends normally disappear in a flash leaving me resenting Monday morning, not just for having to return to work but for stealing all too precious time.
This morning, this Monday, is the most bearable I've had in a long time. I actually feel ready to get on and get things done, things that I have been putting off for weeks; almost since before the tree had begun to acknowledge the changing of the seasons.
# My Colophon page is very out of date and not just because of the inline posting/editing changes. I'm not sure if it's something I want to retain.
Update: I've made a few quick changes regarding public facing features but will think about long term use of the page.
# Why do I insist on keeping archives in my note apps? Months and months of posts, no matter how small or inconsequential; if it started life in a notes app it will invariably be archived. I always ensure I have the required folder structure in place as one of the first tasks when switching apps - it's habitual.
Part of me wonders if this propensity contributed to 'the crash', whether I was holding too much in One Jotter's database and caused it to become corrupted.
Almost everything I write (eventually) goes on the blog or in the muse-letter and is always available online so why do I always feel I need a permanent local copy? I never go back and refer to it; if I need to find something I'll search the blog.
The blog itself - and now with the addition of the Garden - is one big archive so why do I need another?
# And, to make matters worse, I've built an archive into the Garden itself.
