2012 — 20 February: Monday
Another overnight email1 serves only to remind me that I'm horribly behind (is there any other kind?) so the first hour and first cuppa have now vanished forever, as have another few microns of the labels stuck on to the keyboard in a hopeless attempt to keep the things legible.
Another frosty start, too.
This is enough to put me off my (healthy) breakfast:
Mortality
It's a little over four years since my first (and last) phone call from one of the hospice volunteers wanting to know how I'm "getting on". While I don't dwell on mortality, I admit (as a topic both of thought and of conversation) that it's been gradually creeping up nearer the top of the list. That's why I've just returned from making an appointment with my GP to get a mole on my cheek checked out in a couple of weeks.
Brrr. It still feels icy out there even after several hours of sunshine. [Pause] And still damn' chilly for my post-lunch treat — a gentle mooch around Soton where I was (briefly) tempted by a couple of books but manfully resisted. It's 16:28, so obviously time to put the kettle on. [Pause] Then, before you know it, it's 23:02 and the eyelids are already threatening to slam together. I tried, but gave up on, "John from Cincinnati". Ditto, the "Sarah Connor Chronicles". Ditto, "Dollhouse" (the Joss Whedon romp). I dunno. What's a chap to do?