aide-memoire
It is cold again today, and going out for my run felt burdensome, although I managed it, mostly by distracting myself by trying to sort out different genres of memoir. Some people say there are seven, others say there are thirteen, but none of their lists fully encompass the sub-generic specificities that I have drawn my attention, such as the creative mum club (Deborah Levy, Lavinia Greenlaw, et al.), the broken by their parents club (Gibbon, John Stuart Mill, Trollope, et al.), the poorly Irish ladies (which is a phrase I do not like but cannot get out of my head; A Ghost in the Throat, Constellations, etc.), the mental illness as defining characteristic (no names), the has not done or experienced anything worth writing a memoir about but writes decent prose and has no other ideas for a book and so succumbs to the solecism of solipsism club (no names), among others.
It is cold enough that I have turned on the electric heater that sits in the fireplace and warms the brick surround slightly, but not enough for comfort. The dog seems to find it cozy enough, judging by her snoring.