2014 — 7 November: Friday
My pleasure this morning1 was counter-balanced by (a) the alarm when I realised that news of my giant arachnid teleportation services is spreading. (There was a whopper sitting in my bath this morning just waiting to be airlifted into the garden.) And (b) the relief when I realised that it's Friday, not Saturday, and I thus still have a little more time to prepare for the weekend incursion of Peter and his g/f. I do, after all, require plenty of time in which to procrastinate.
There seems...
... to be (or to have been?) a bit of a spat going on. These comments on it made me smile:
Or estate agent?
The kitchen sink...
... is proving irritatingly resistant to my cleaning. The Force is strong in that one. I shall eat a late lunch while pondering my remaining options. Chemical? Bacteriological? Electrical? Thermal? ThermoNuclear?
[Pause]
I've just returned from Roger and Eileen's in full-on darkness and it's not even 18:00 yet. What a grim time of year this is.