It’s 11am on Sunday morning. As the title of the post suggests, I’m not at Wetherspoons. Part of that might have something to do with not going to bed until 2am, and not falling asleep until 3am. Oops.
When I start working for myself in January, I’m guessing the whole “avoiding tomorrow” thing will go away – because I’ll have all the time in the world to jump down rabbit holes that at the moment tend to eat my entire evenings. Just for your interest, this evenings lunatic crusade involved piloting a recalcitrant Boeing 757-200 from Minnesota to Winnipeg. Flying the aeroplane wasn’t a problem – getting several computer related moving parts to talk reliably to each other certainly was.
I got there in the end.
I didn’t realise what the time was until I finished writing up and publishing the escapade to the internet. Where on earth had the previous 5 hours gone?
I woke at 8am this morning, squinted at the clock on the bedside table, then fell back asleep. I woke again a little before 9 when my nine month old grand-daughter, who’s new trick is walking, landed in the middle of the bed – talking nonsense at a hundred miles an hour. She can’t talk yet – not in words we might understand – but that doesn’t stop her telling you all sorts of very important things.
I decided it might be time to get up after losing spectacularly in a raspberry blowing competition.
My eldest daughter went with her on again off again boyfriend to a Halloween party last night. They took bottles of spirits with them to make cocktails. I noticed the washing up bowl is missing from the sink in kitchen this morning. I don’t want to know what it was used for late last night. Let’s hope it turns up without carrot chunks in it.
I’m taking a day off from the relentless grind today. I’m two coffees in.
Perhaps it’s time to fire up the Commodore 64 and repeat a typical Sunday morning from four decades ago.
p.s. I might have ordered an Amiga last week.
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