I was greeted by a huge bright yellow Jackson Pollock streak of cat vomit on the landing this morning, crowned with a tumbleweed of semi-digested grass: last thing I felt like cleaning up.
I have no energy! I went down to get the Vanish, opened the kitchen cupboard and a large jam jar and marble pestle and mortar that I found in the garden fell out and smashed to powder and mean-looking shards on the floor.
So that was two lots of clearing up, using tomorrow's low energy count as well as today's.
I have retired with my fourth John Rebus novel of the week, having read an interesting US West Coast private detective story and got halfway through a Bond novel and rejected it as being too bitty and boring, let alone the sexism, which is funny on screen but tedious in print.
Martin, the genius of Invergordon, has scored out the beginning chords of Heaven Avenue using Finale, the classical musician's software, and I am hugely grateful. It arrived this morning and has rescued the day.
Thank you Martin!
Back to the book and sleep. I am bored with being ill, especially being in a room with guitars.
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