Another day on the road
Mood: not sure
Now Playing: sound financial advice which I will not follow
Just got in after six hours driving Duch to Oxfordshire and back, (via a stopoff at my parents' in Wiltshire for refuelling - human - and some wild pony poo chocolate) to be vetted by a Mad Cat Breeder for suitability. She's buying a Maine Coon kitten - the ones that look like weirdly still tigers and grow to about 35 pounds. Jeez!
Right now, it's an adorable bundle of damp smelly whiskers that mewls and bounces and scratches. Whereas Mad Cat Breeder's whiskers rustled with annoyance if we even so much as moved, and her fur well nigh stood on end as she waved us off with dire stories of how that friend of Duch (me) had dangerous, sickly, plague ridden cats who would murder her kitten one day, "mark my words". I am saving up for the bell to warn Duch of my proximity, in future, so she be ready with the bleach and plastic socks.
Last night was great fun, wandering around olden time East End boozers, full of crooning old blokes who looked like Jack Duckworth - I visited The George at Terminus, The Ten Bells, where you were on permanent display to armies of visiting Americans doing the rather morbid Jack the Ripper walking tour (although I rather preferred to think it was me they were pointing at, it was the dilapidated old Hoxton trendy wine bar that has replaced the pub, cleverly keeping eight of the original tiles for historical relevance), the Brick Lane Beigel Bake, The Approach, and The Palm Tree's late night singalonga old joanna lock-in.
Martin was terribly interesting company, whereas I was bloody blotto yet again, and spent most of the evening bothering Dave with drunken texts, apparently, while he tried to concentrate on delivering a competent fondue party. Why he would attempt such an insane undertaking is patently his business, and I was wrong to assume he had lost all sense of proportion and sanity, and quite deeply wrong to assume these could be regained in a Hoxton pub.
< == Two new blogs on the blog roll over there.
Yidaho and JATB are two (real life) (!) friends of mine who have been secretly blogging without allowing me to look at what they're written. I know it's customary for bloggers to pretend a degree of humility, (what this ole blog? no, no, no, surely nobody would read it...) but really, that's an outdated ritual that no-one ever believes.
Writing a blog is in and of itself an exercise in arrogance constrained by irrelevance. Embrace the lunacy! Be proud of the insensitivity. And blog more.
I want to see at least one divorce and two family feuds from these two blogs by Christmas, gels.