Frustrations.

I think it must be showing.

‘Having one of those days?’ asked the checkout operator.

‘One of those years, actually.’

‘Oh well, this one’s nearly over.’

‘Mmm. If only the fates respected the calendar.’

Even the checkout operators won’t be talking to me soon!

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So it is with M’lady S. I need to talk to her to sort out a mystery over book sales. But how, short of knocking on the door and risking terminal immolation in the maelstrom of the dragon’s breath? (I’m sort of joking, but it is awkward.) According to the not-so-trusty Feedjit, she hasn’t visited the blog since Sunday morning, so I can’t even talk to her that way. I did hope she would notice me watching her through the kitchen window this afternoon as she was swanning around in her GAP sweatshirt, but no. Inca did; she gave me one of those cute cocks of the head. Had she been a Rough Collie instead of a Cocker Spaniel, no doubt she would have barked knowingly and pointed in my direction. We can’t always have what we want, can we? I think I said that before.

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The Rogue Renault is still playing up, despite having gone through full diagnostic checks which showed nothing wrong.

‘So what do we do now?’ I asked Nigel.

‘Sell it and buy another one.’

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I think I should leave commenting on today’s damning report into the appalling state of the care provided to the disabled and elderly by private care companies. We did allow Mrs Thatcher to dismantle civilisation, so I suppose we shouldn't complain.