Hence one of those heavy dope days, lying in bed, one-tenth listening to Radio 4, one-tenth reading Curious Survivals (a book on odd British customs and rituals that somehow lingered into the 20th century, which I found in the good bookshop in Alnwick after having been utterly depressed by the supposedly-good one: a reminder, if one were needed, that size is not what counts), and the rest flolloping in the arms of drowsy Morpheus.
Hence, alasalso, being waytoowasted to talk with griffen when he called *sigh*. *BIG SNUGGLES* -> Griffee.
Alsofurtherplus, still being too disconnected to write up the events of our spiffy holiday, including the Quest for Castle DaisyCow, the sighting (and irritating overhearing) of a flock of Symbolololological Gore-Texies pontificating at St Cuthbert's Cave, the Collecting of the Evidence (and still being bewildered at why I confuse the National Trust with the National Front), and The Woman Startled At My Singing.
Still, the Prozac is working again - or I'm too wrecked to notice that it isn't.