Freg!

So tell me, what’s a man supposed to do? I walk parts of Sarah’s known routes to try and bump into her. I hang around by the pub, hoping to anticipate what time she’ll be coming home from work. I make blog posts that I feel sure will provoke a reaction from her. I even walk past her house singing the first freggin’ verse of Raglan freggin’ Road, for heaven’s sake! So, come on then; what else can I do?

I’m not planning to propose to her, you know. Just hoping to have a conversation.

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It’s been one of those days when things break, things don’t work properly, the fire displays the most idiotic reluctance to light, and time is spent on hands and knees clearing up a mess because the lid fell off a container and spewed the contents far and wide across the kitchen freggin' floor.

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I converted my dashboard to Bulgarian earlier, just to see what it would look like. And then I came close to a state bordering on panic when I discovered that the language list was also now in freggin’ Bulgarian and it seemed I would never find ‘English UK’ ever again. I did. It was at the top – in English. Thank you Google. (I never thought I’d hear myself say that.)

I swear my taste for adventure will be the death of me one day.