Don’t have a thing to say except:
• I got the essay in and the taxes too but only after two nights that stretched into the wee small hours;
• Tut-tut sent me a dishcloth just because! and isn’t it beautiful and isn’t she wonderfully generous?;
• Am knitting a scarf for Mr Soup for Fathers’ Day. Fathers’ Day is tomorrow. Looks like the scarf will be wrapped up still on the needles, and snatched back the minute he’s opened it;
• Popped into the yet-to-be-renovated Greensborough Plaza (can’t wait! A pet library! Knitting group! Wallpaper!) to get my watch fixed and favourite necklace clasp repaired;
• Nicked into an op shop during a spare ten minutes (was getting withdrawal symptoms) and scored a stack of books and an old lady bottle green, box pleated wool skirt, just below knee length. Wore it to work on Friday over a long straight brown wool skirt. Felt bohemian. Or something. Why do Marks and Spencers clothes feature a label saying St Michaels? This is one of the great mysteries of my life, along with understanding Facebook (why, why?), organised religion, Twitter (see Facebook), GM foods and maintaining tension while crocheting;
• I am going to be working for a few hours at the most beautiful shop in the southern hemisphere for the next couple of weeks and am greatly looking forward to fondling and sniffing the delicious yarns and hand-dyed felts;
• Started The Last Witchfinder a few days ago, left it in the car and couldn’t be bothered retrieving it on the one night this week that I managed to head to bed with a cup of tea and a good book at 8.30pm, so grabbed Running With Scissors from the op shop stack. Read a chapter, fell asleep. Do I persevere?
• My cooking obsession appears to be over. Completely. Can’t get interested;
• The Soup menfolk, along with a ring-in, have set off tonight to meet approximately five other blokes of varying ages to indulge in some male bonding at the first Melbourne Victory homegame of the season, leaving me and the dog all alone to get squiffy and watch Parky. Son #1 is wearing his fingerless gloves and everyone in the party under the age of 14 is sporting a Muscateers tattoo on their right cheek. Son #3’s slipped during the application process and his reads "Muscatee" before disappearing into the corner of his mouth. I asked him how the r and s tasted. ("Inky").
• The knitted Shrek sperm on Flickr has now been viewed
Seems I did have quite a bit to say.
Told you I was squiffy.