Sunday Rain

I moved out of Hatfield without hitch, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear. I myself feared an emotional mob equipped with the standard pitchforks and flaming torches crying, "Don't leave, or we'll kill you.". In the deep personal darkness of about three in the morning, anyway.

The landlord made a bit of trouble. In his eyes he was being perfectly reasonable - some things had been damaged in the time I'd been in the house, and so to save the hassle and fractiousness caused by an investigation into who was responsible, he was simply going to charge us all to save the trouble, okay?

Um, no. Not really.

Having put a rather upstanding and righteous case forward, whilst claiming responsibility for the cracked hoover attachment (I was the only one in the house who used it) I refuted blame for the ripped-off oven door handle (it was the housemate I dubbed The Luddite, rolling drunk) and the glass cupboard door (The Luddite again, and let's just say he'd had a few), and managed to make my landlord feel, in his words, "super guilty". Which I thought was fair, as he was, after all, trying to rip me off.

In his knot of super-guilt, he reduced the amount he was going to charge by £10. Watch the Vatican news boards for his impending beatification, kids.

Home is home is home.

The flight's on Thursday...which all of a sudden is damn close.

Bring it on.

I miss Krissa terribly, especially at weekends. In the weeks before this one, I was working and the mornings flew by, but at weekends her wake up call (which can be at any time after 2pm UK time) takes a long time to crawl around.

Next weekend will be different, after all.