We're all so English, that most of us wrote about the weather yesterday. Today, here, it was fresh and cold and sunny, which was delightful. It was frosty this morning, and I fell heavily (not that I'm heavy, you understand) on Al and Dilly's path. The Sage, who was looking after the children, rushed out with Pugsley, wrapped in a blanket, in his arms. He hauled me up; my left hip hurt which makes a change and I have five cuts on my hand but no grazes and I brushed it off.
I realised, last night, that I had cocked up and missed a deadline and wrote to apologise and I've been reprieved. How kind. I will confess to those who were nearly affected, of course, because being humble helps others as well as oneself, although one would prefer not to have to be. Dammit. No really, I need God because who else would keep forgiving me? People, of course, because they're endlessly kind, but my stupidity goes beyond that.
There was a mean letter in the village magazine which has hurt me. I know who has written it; there is no name to it and that is not the editor's policy, but I understand the pressure which has been brought to bear. I'll have to write an answer and it must be inoffensive and not hurt (ing or ful). I will give it a day or two, I have a fortnight in hand and must consult others. Hasty letters are not good. Hasty emails should never be sent. If your fingers seem inspired to heights of rudery, print, save, reread the next day and then decide what to send. It probably won't be the angrily written email that seemed so inspired the night before.
Sorry, you won't have a clue what I'm writing about. Several things. Chocolate calls, I think. It won't be answered, for I am strong-minded. Dammit. Fortunately, I don't even try to resist alcohol. Thank the lord for alcohol.
No, I've had enough. Sigh. I'll cuddle the dog instead.