Crowds have been stampeding through my house, poking and prodding, peering and sneering, but occasionally too oohing and aahing.
Good news for posties. Low-level letter boxes might be banned from all new buildings.
I ask you to be upstanding and join me in a toast to that most noble of professions: the cleaner.
Last week, in a world exclusive report, I revealed how I was stalked from above as I waddled along the shore on Skye. The stalker was a drone, buzzing aboot, making a noise like a thousand angry bees.
I think we need to think about thinking this week. You think: “What’s he on about now?” I will now proceed, after a few deep breaths while marshalling my thoughts, to tell you precisely what I’m on about.
Let’s face it, this isn’t New anything that’s coming up on Tuesday. It’s Mid. “Mid-what?” you ask, knowing perfectly well but mindful of the fact that it’s panto season. Mid-winter, of course.
I’ve put on a bit of weight and it isn’t even Christmas yet. The trouble with this time of year is that, if you’ve any good intentions, you tell yourself: “Yes, I’ll definitely make a start on that… in the New Year.”
I have made a bags of my head again. Regular readers who take copious notes will recall that I cut my own hair. I just feel that handing over responsibility for one’s barnet to a stranger is risky, and I dislike the loss of control as one is strapped into the chair and sedated. Maybe that was just me, right enough.
I have a new mouse. Quite often in my life, I have a mouse, always solitary little fellows, minding their own business and harming no one.
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.