We hit a good patch on both calendars today, although the Etsy one had to be opened with a knife due to over-enthusiastic closing from F.
The small stars will, I imagine, go every-bloody-where but they're quite cheery. They can be Roomba's Christmas present.
Today I gave in to my craving and went to Ikea. The wrapping paper selection was dreadful, and the slog to the ground floor was endless and Cräp filled, but the CINNAMON ROLLS WERE BACK. The little soft ones, not the massive frozen ones which slap you round the face with cardamom and sugar crystals. Obviously, we did not emerge without various other pieces of tat, but apart from the cinnamon rolls, it was a fairly parsimonious trip. Actually, I am racking my brain to try and work out what we bought and coming up with nothing, except F who purchased four AAA batteries and a plant that looks like it could kill you. Apart from that I have worked, squabbled, failed to tidy and worked again and tried to block out the noise of F and his loudest (though delightful) friend, being wholly hysterical. Cheerful, but hysterical.
L is the only one who has the right idea about Saturday. He cashed in a long-standing token for breakfast in bed, rose around 11 and lay on the sofa in his pyjamas in his shark sleeping bag for most of the rest of the day.
Now I have to try and locate and sign a mislaid deed of trust. Easy.
(What shall I read now? I have finished Shotgun Love Songs - hmmm - and am failing to engage with a detective thingy. Did people like the Song of Achilles? Would I like it? Or Americanah? I have both on Kindle currently. Or have you read any relentlessly gloomy but gripping Scandinavian style murder I might enjoy?)