If a vicious wave of cold hits Northern Europe this week, it is because I have prematurely removed the furry lining from my parka, not heeding the proverbial recommendations about casting of clouts/découvre-ing fils too early. Sorry about that.
My legs have just given up, after yesterday's shoe punishment. They are angry, unyielding sausages of wrath even though I have surrendered them to the forgiving embrace of M&S comfort soles. Nothing makes me feel more decrepit than my recent enforced acceptance that I can no longer cope with a vicious heel.
I am eating like a pig.
My neighbour is still a Jamiroquai and U2 listening, unhinged, dick.
I have to woman up and deal with a work thing I am being utterly shit and craven about. Actually, there are probably tens of work things I am being shit and craven about, but I have a particular one in mind.
The pointless, improbable running away fantasies are strong presently. We will all live in a bothy and raise grouse, or goats, or guinea fowl or something. We will live off stewed heather and carrion and peaty spring water and will not need possessions or money or electricity, and will live a simple life of contemplation in harmony with the land, etc etc etc. Bollocks. I would be running away to the nearest supermarket/wifi network within hours. Nevertheless, the fantasy persists.
It is warm enough to make unwise vestimentary decisions. One of my narcissi is out plus a tentative half crocus. I think the hedgehog must have eaten all the rest before expiring, happy in a job well done, much in the manner of the previous incumbent of the role of dark garden destroyer, Satan.
We tried a new cafe whilst F was being grilled in preparation for "EXAMEN INTERNATIONAL DE CHINOIS" (this is how his teacher describes it, in a manner calculated to create the maximum fear in both of us) and it was really quite nice, with shelves of second-hand books and decent coffee.
I'm having a great streak of reading (see "Reading" page) and basically want to be in bed buried in a book all the time.
The two parcels I thought were lost have finally turned up. We are all ok for socks now! Hold the emergency socks.
The tragopan's approach to romance is hilariously terrible. No, hang on, this is worse (dear seal, I would skip the inflated nasal membrane stage and go straight to "physical violence").
An entertaining misunderstanding on gchat earlier led me to imagining "a howling vortex of quail". Would you consider this a good or a bad thing? I am on the fence. What would you fill a howling vortex with?