Head in hands

Against my better nature I am making tentative moves towards that bloody day towards the end of the month. I hate Christmas!

And the thanks I get is this: flush with his mini triumph in filching a $500 book from the doddery old dears running the local charity shop he's bought and brought into my home another armful of tatty, dusty, foxed and falling apart old books.

The deluded sloth believes old = valuable. 1840 must therefore be Very Valuable. Possibly. But not when it is a hackneyed reprint of a work first published in 1621. Now the 1621 edition would pay off the mortgage. The 1840 reprint might pay for a big nosh up at the local Indian on a cold, wet and miserable Sunday night.

I am annoyed. He is unaware of this. If I throw these out or give them back he will find out and be annoyed. And I will be very aware of that.

Bastard.

I am going to write a story for children about ....

Ha! But it is better than re-writing my dreary Gothic Horror. I hated the first two paragraphs of that so much I carried out chemical warfare on the oven instead and gave myself an altogether different sort of headache. This has been that sort of day.

I had a drink a few days ago. Just a drink, just one. It was such a non-event and there were no ramifications so I didn't bother you with the news. What a good girl I can be. And gee, patronising myself is almost as much fun being patronised by my trainee teenager.