Blimey - only a few hours of this left to see if I can manage something constructive after the past couple of days of pure idleness. It's all Michael Connelly's fault for writing such beautifully constructed and totally absorbing *crime novels* so I am absolved of all sin.
On the other hand it would be pleasant to see the top of the dining room table again as it's been covered with bits of paper for a week now, all part of the less-than-half-hearted attempt to deal with and organize and file the dreaded hard copy mail, sitting there untouched while I run around with the point-and-shoot and document the amazing results of a little bit of rain before diving back into bed again with The Scarecrow.
It's a hard life if you don't weaken.
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