I’ve been spilling food down my front again. My front is hardly front-page news. Spillages down it are an everyday occurrence. Diary entry: “Got up. Spilled food down shirt. Watched telly. Went to bed.”
I hope my next house has an attic. I’ve been clearing out the one in the home I’ll soon be departing and don’t know what I could have done without it.
Bertie has been in a scrap. Or, perchance, he’s had an accident. At any rate, the tubby tabby cat suffered a lot of bruising and swelling to his chest area, and has had to have an operation.
I’m back in Skye, as usual at an unfashionable time of year! I was prepared not to like it – always trying to free myself from the magic spell – but, once more, it overcomes me.
I have developed a phobia. It’s arguably my only one. Like many decent ratepayers, I am afraid of spiders, but a phobia is an irrational fear, and it seems to me perfectly sensible to fear spiders. All these legs!
I ask you to be upstanding and join me in a toast to that most noble of professions: the cleaner.
Ooh, I do love a sauna. I hadn’t had one for ten years but discovered, to my delight, that there was one attached to the village gym near where I’m currently staying.
It’s the time of the toad. Signs have gone up beside the pond at the foot of the suburban hill warning stravaigers to watch out for amphibians underfoot.
I have had the discombobulating experience of a flying object following me overhead and even zooming in on me.
This boy has a new toy. You’ll be horrified when I tell you bluntly what it is. For it is a knife.