It is traditional to do things to mark the passing of the year, which I frankly like more than Christmas as it’s the promise of the new, and anything could happen and it’s all very exciting.

There are different ways of doing this. There is the lovely Mayfly Project, where you can sum up your year in 24 words, or you can make lists of favourite events or musical happenings, like lovely Mike, or you can tell the story of your blogyear like Gordon.

And I would very much like to do the latter, but I can’t remember what I wrote and, as someone said the other day, my word count is quite high, because I write too much, so I didn’t have the time. God knows how you lot ever do.

Anyway, I tend to have quite a strong visual memory more than anything, and thought that photos might be way forward.

So, having the memory of a lab gnat, I was reviewing my year by looking through my flickr stream, finding, on the way, that there were many things I had done and pictures I had taken that I never had time to put on there, so will be going back in time to do so. Yay! More procrastinationary measures!

I’m lucky enough to have work which makes me travel, quite intensely and tiringly, generally, but amazingly all the same. And also this year I’ve also had a couple of really nice weekends away with family and friends and things. So here is my year as represented by some of the scenery I have seen.

I’ve been doing more and more things to do with food. I don’t know why, as I still don’t really know how to cook - but I do know how to eat, and the enjoyment of complex flavours, textures, all of that - but good food (usually that someone else has made) is one of my favourite favourite things.

So anyway, this is a montage of some of my favourite food pictures of the year. Man I love food. This is making it difficult to lose a substantial amounts of weight, let me tell you.

And finally, because I didn’t want to get to the end of this post and have all the comments read ‘But what about the kittens?!’ Here is my year as represented by various pictures of critters.

So that’s my year. Oh! No, it isn’t! It was, but then I joint-won A nice Post of the Year prize, for this post. Yay! Thanks to Post of the Week people and all who participated in whatever the participatory process was, it is, and you are, all lovely.

YAY!

And HEY, people, it’s a New Year starting at midnight. Isn’t that great? Completely blank slate.
So happy that, one and all.

I’ve had a fucking incredible year, all things considered. So hurrah. I’ll be back tomorrow with resolutionny things. But in the meantime, I am going to have a mainly computer-free evening, which, as it happens, is also one of the resolutions. So starting early, then. Well done me.

Oooh! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

You remember those fairy pictures that those little girls took in the late 1800s at some point?
I mean, I’m not suggesting you’re dead old, you’re not, of course, you’re not only young, but you look ten years young, is that a new haircut? Anyway. This is just like that, right, except current (well, June) and MUCH MORE AMAZING.

Look! This man is taking pictures of a floating fairy in front of the louvre! Dan Brown was right after all!

If you look very carefully, it is possible to see both pointy ears AND wings, and maybe a pet butterfly on a string wearing a flower petal for a hat. The fairy is clearly herself taking a photo, perhaps with a camera made of dew and spidersilk, of the very man taking her picture. Even fairies do it.

Anyway. Here I am presenting you with the raw, untouched, indefatigable proof of fairy-existence, and cannot by accused of charlatanism by Houdini or his modern equivalent (Derren Brown) at a later date. But I will do some work on photoshop for you tomorrow, for those of you who might seek to disprove my discovery by use of words like ‘perspective’ or ‘over there’ or ‘idiot’.

And when I have finished clarifying the finer more difficult to see parts of the photo like they might on a US crime show like CSI or something, you will see that I am right, and that fairies not only exist, but that I, Anna Pickard, have discovered them.

It is a miracle of modern science!

UPDATED!

You see!

Having been sharpened by the magic eyes of scientific computers, it is perfectly obvious! He is taking a picture of a tiny tiny fairy, floating before his very eyes! Magic! It’s almost hard to believe, but science says it is so, therefore it must be so!

Ta DAAAAH!

If anyone else has any forensic photoediting equipment, as the lovely mjb does please do feel free to share the results of your computations proving the existence of fairies from this already extraordinary photograph, please feel free to share them with us, either through the magic of flickr, or you can email them. My email address is on the side (unless you work in PR), just make sure to remove the bit in capital letters from the address.

Yay! Fairies!

Right. Now, back to working on my special 2007 round up.

I realise that I have been veh quiet, but then, it has been Christmas and dark and things, and you most probably weren’t reading anyway. Still. I knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to write anything else until I had made some attempt to update you on the kittings. So.

I will hereby introduce them, and then move on to other things - because this is NOT going to turn into a catblog - and then I will try and give a kupdate at least once a week, because some of you people? You honeys are cat-CRAZY, I tell you.

So, pls, meet my kittens:

Squirrel

Squirrel is a beautiful, beautiful cat. Sleek and silky, with beautiful big eyes, she is all cat, and will become more so, I conjecture, as we go on. She arrived, we didn’t know what to call her, but being grey and quite long and pointy, we called her rabbit for a minute. Then we thought she was a boy, called her Pedro, then, when she got what her sister had and we went back to the vet for the third time he suddenly decided he was a she, so we spent a while trying to think of names of famous transexuals, couldn’t - or none that suited her anyway.

She ended up Squirrel because it suits her, but is most often called Baby, anyway - not after the thing they quite clearly represent, but because that’s what I call everyone I have any vague affection for.

She sleeps where she wants to sleep, which makes it all the more lovely when she chooses that place as ‘on you’. She eats when she wants to eat, which is pretty much all the time, and if she wants to hide under the futon in the spare room and not come out when you make the food noises, she will, and that is just that.

She will show you love if she feels like it and only then. Well, then or if you bribe her with salmon, which works for me.

Widget

Happily for the strict diversity quotas announced for all liberal middleclass housepets. We have may be gay. We are positively reinforcing her decision with pro-gay television (well, Will and Grace was on a minute ago, and I’ve just flicked past Ellen, so I should think she’s taking all that in, she has very big eyes after all).

Whatever the case, we are determined to support Widget whatever path she may chose bearing in mind it’s going to make very little difference in a couple of months once she’s had a small proportion of her love-organs removed anyway. And besides, she probably isn’t hot for women-cats. Or women. In all likelihood, she may just be hot for my tits alone. Or that’s the way it feels.

She is a small fuzzball, always the smaller of the two, and decidedly the most sickly when they arrived, she’s now almost as big as her sister with black splodges on her brown back, is just an ODD little moggy, frankly. We don’t know the parentage of either of them - though the mother is the same, the father may not be - but we are guessing that she is approximately 60% Cat and approximately 40% Crazy.

The Widget cat is developing a definite behaviour, and it’s a behaviour of:
a) being fast asleep
b) waking up, realising that one of us is in the room, and
c) running up to them, or just running straight UP them, purring loud enough to be heard in Peru
d) settling her kittenself on a chest, and nuzzling her kitten nose against a human nose for a while
e) then standing and kneading the cleavage of her host for up to and above ten minutes before falling asleep, being cute, then rather predictably rolling off. If the host doesn’t happen to have said cleavage, the kitten-rolling will occur earlier.

The curling/kneeding takes the form of:
1) Standing on the right breast, kneeding the left breast for a while and then trying to curl up on the right side of the chestfor approximately a minute, in a place that, for her host, is inconvenient but not deadly.
2) Deciding herself to be slightly uncomfortable, suddenly standing up, sticking her tiny kitten nose up her host’s right nostril, doing a complex three point turn and then
3) Repeating step one, swapping ‘right’ for ‘left’ and ‘left’ for ‘right’ at every appropriate juncture.
4)Repeating step two, again substituting right for left,
Steps 5 to a eleventyjillion) Repeat as above.

THEN and this is a doozy right here:

Eleventyjillion and one) Placing one paw on each breast top and paddling both simultaneously.

Which yes, sounds really cute, doesn’t it?

But do you know where this puts her ARSE?

shudder

So anyway, eleventyjillion-and-two) having forced her host to, repulsed, sit with their head pressed against their spine, then she lies down in a little ball directly beneath my chin, right in the middle where there’s not much to hold her up. She manages to stay taut enough to stay up there for approximately fifteen seconds before, after having spent all that time finding Nirvana, rolling straight off it.

I already have her pegged as the comedy kitten.

SO

Those are my kittens. They say hello.

No, they don’t, of course, because they are not people, speak no English, and care little for blogging. Like most people, in fact. But not people. Cats. There will be no anthropomorphising around here, guvnor. Well, not much.

Next Something that is not vaguely cat-related!!!

Merry that!

Go eat cheese! It is the true meaning of the holiday!

I have a hangover after a Polish Christmas Eve dinner turned into a poker game. But as soon as that goes away, please rest assured, I will be straight at the cheese! Hurrah!

Happy Cheesemas!

I got a posh coat!

This isn’t a great story - I was going to a party where the necessary pretty dress simply wouldn’t go with a battered old duffel coat, so a coat needed to be bought. I went to some discounty place, bought a last-season poshcoat for cheap, and now look like I might have once been quite posh in 2006 or something but have more recently hit the skids.

However, my new poshcoat has no pockets. No pockets at all. Wheredo poshpeople put their hands? Must I invest in a muff?

Sorry about going all quiet for a minute there, but fucking hell, that was a dreadful week. As the year got to its very darkest, I got trapped in a little pit of tears and sleep and fuzzy-headedness and I could barely get out. Sorry about that. Anyway. I’m back now, for the moment, on my feet and everything. And hello. Now. What have I been up to this week? I will try and catch up before bedtime, but in different posts. So anyway yes. I’ve not been great. I’ve been absolutely horrible this week, but it’s now christmas and everything’s clean and decorated, and I have cheese. So yay. Hello.

OW.

Actually the story of me and my hurty hand is not, alas, very interesting, being mainly a fight between me and the vacuum cleaner.

No, hang on, that also sounds far more exciting than it was.

Oh whatever. The story:

Anna is hoovering, and very thoroughly, because it is good that she does so. Because cleanliness is next to godliness and therefore hooveringness is next to jesusness.

Also because of allergy things. Her beloved is a bit Catllergic, but much more dampallergic, and since there is not only new kittings but, currently, a dampness problem being resolved in their house, she is trying to remove any trace of catness that there could possibly be around the bed, so as not to have two allergy things bothering her beloved’s sleep (and therefore her own) rather than the one (very nasty) dampy one.

So Anna is hoovering.
The vacuum cleaner - not a ‘Hoover’, as it goes, but instead one of those posh ones without the bags and stuff - is refusing to follow her around the room, generally getting stuck behind things, turning itself wrongside upways and being as heavy as the moon, if the moon had a bendy sucking pipe attached to it, which, now I think about it, would be pretty cool.

Anna, vacuum cleaning, is getting into all the corners, and behind the bed, and under everything you can get the hoover tube under (which is admittedly not that much, it being the dreadful unwieldy beast that it is, the bastard). Anna is, therefore, stirring up a lot of dust. To which SHE is allergic. Her head is fuzzier than usual, her cheeks are flushed and her senses dimmed. She has just sneezed around four hundred thousand times in a row, and this has not improved her mood very much - her mood, as you may have gathered, not being much to speak of anyway at the moment.

Anna is trying very hard indeed to vacuum, but the vacuum cleaner, a design classic though it might be, is clearly a design classic designed to vacuum large empty expanses of carpet with no furniture in them. Which doesn’t really describe our bedroom, which is small, with furniture in it. Like a bed and stuff. Yeah, I know, we’re livin’ on the edge.

The vacuum cleaner, which is clearly tired from all those years of sitting around while someone designed the shit out of it, is now trying Anna’s patience by getting one over-designed corner of it’s damned self trapped behind something pathetic, like a rolled up blanket or something, the pissy little twunt.

So Anna, who has frankly done ENOUGH vacuuming, and would now like to STOP, but would have preferred to DECIDE when to stop rather than having to flip this Moon-heavy BASTARD over again so she could finish when THE THING wanted her to stop. ARG!

Anyway, so now we have the grumpy dust-filled Anna in the red corner, and the belligerent hoover-bastard in the twat corner.
Anna decides to switch off the hoover.
Anna decides that if she switches off the hoover Very Hard it will teach the vacuum cleaner a lesson.
It will be turned off good and proper, and it will think twice before behaving so very terribly the next time around.

Anna goes to hit the off switch - BAD vacuum cleaner!
The Vacuum Cleaner sees this coming, and suddenly, mysteriously, develops a large plastic ‘Nobble’ (it’s a technical over-design term) between Anna’s hand and the off switch - because that’s the world’s most Perfect place to stick a nobble, isn’t it? Right next to something someone might want to hit.

RESULT:
Anna wins! The vacuum cleaner is utterly (or ‘possibly’) chastised into never repeating its bad behaviour ever again. Or I’ll sue.

Yes, I admit, one fifth of my hand is a deep purple/grey colour, had to be iced with some frozen turkey breasts in bags for an hour or so and might have swollen to almost twice it’s size, but my GOD it was worth it to teach that jumped-up hoover a lesson. Also, the turkey needed to be defrosted anyway, so it all worked out variously fine, apart from my hand, which is only occasionally suffering from a numbness of the thumb, but otherwise fine.

So I took some pictures of it, one which I put at the top there.

But then I thought that some people might say ‘well that’s all very well but where are the photos of the kittings?’.

So I took this:

Which is VERY representative of the kittens and their cuteness, but not quite representative enough of the dark purple/grey of the corner of my hand, which is a lot more thrilling, frankly, so boo, bad photo (but cute kittings). Seriously, though, the corner of my hand is like an aubergine, and it’s all the fault of Cleaning.

Oh alright, I’ll do a post about kittings next.

Ow.

I am feeling worried that at more than thirty (THIRTY! I may just DIE any minute!) years of age, I still have no clear career plan. Or pension. I’m not so fussed about the pension, or buying a house or any of that rubbish as much as I probably should, mainly because I can in no way afford it. The chance of us being able to afford to get on the property ladder is approximately the same as the chance of us getting on to the property ladder on the moon (where everyone lives on vertical ladders, you see, due to the lack of gravity, so it is more literal there)

Anyway. There is a problem with not having very great aspirations in the first place, really, and then, and then managing to achieve some of those and then feeling a bit confused, like you *did* know what you wanted to do when you grew up, and now that you’ve done that you’re not quite sure anymore. And

So here is my new list of things I want to be when I grow up.

MY NEW LIST OF THINGS I WANT TO BE WHEN I GROW UP

Someone who designs road systems
I think this must be very hard, and also take a long long time to get good at. Therefore it is a good thing to aim for, as I don’t know anything about driving, not being able to drive and that, so I could either take a long time becoming very good at it - which would mean I would have a long term goal for a long time. OR I could take a very short time to be very bad at it, and just make shit up. It would be brilliant. Every one would be driving around in cricles trying to follow signs that said helpful things like ‘Compulsory Hat Zone next 40 mi’ or ‘Drive like a buffoon until next roundabout’.

Curtain designer
It must be pretty easy, as they’re basically just large sheets of cloth with handles at the top for hanging from things. So it could be achievable quite quickly, and then once I was capable of sewing hanging handles to sheets, I could quickly move on to being the Foremost Curtain Designer In The World.

Nail Varnish Namer
Or paint. I could also do paint. Hot Blood Sundae! Smiling Rasberry! Squashed Animal After Several Days Sunshine!

A Tractor
Or a bulldozer. I don’t mind.

Tom Hanks agent
God that man annoys me. That would be great, though. Revenge being a dish best serving cold and that.
“Oh hallo Tom, yis I have an audition for you, darling, it’s fabulous, it’s for a giant Hot Dog in a hot dog advert. Yes! A hot dog advert selling hot dogs! Oh no I insist, you’d be marvellous, darling, it’s very YOU! Yes, because you’re very tall!”

Polar bear
But not one trapped on an iceberg and coming down with symptoms of the climate changes. Nor one in a zoo. Somewhere in the middle, then. Not in the sea, I mean, that would be very dead-making. More ‘wandering about killing seals and being generally quite violent and happy’, but not dying of the climate changes.

Fairy princess
Obv.

Fifteen other things
That I cannot think of right now. It is quite dizzying as a future. I’m going to be very busy. That is fo sho.

Rapper.
But not a very good one. Most likely a very bad one.

For oh just *so* many reasons. I mean, there are lots of reasons why it aren’t - and do remind me I was going to say something else about viral marketing blog PRs - but there are also lots of reason why there are, and that, my friends, is what makes all this worth it and everything else simply WRONG, with a capital R. That doesn’t really work in text, does it? Bother. Imagine I was saying that out loud. In fact, I just did. Did that help? Excellent.

You’ll have to excuse me, I was going to sit here and carefully structure a nice little post here, but I seem just to be having a chat instead. That is also fine.

So yes: Why the internet is just GREAT.

Well, apart from the fact it just is, obv, and apart from the fact that you must be on it, because you’re reading this, and YOU’RE great (obv) well, there are, as stated above, just so many reasons.

Like, say, if you suddenly got it into your head to go on a bit of a train journey on some other continent at some point - not that I am necessarily, this is just an example I am pulling out of the air - you can just, within seconds, look up the timetables and the fares and BAM! Mentally, you are on that train, chuffing through a foreign countryside and yes, of course it’s all going to be complete bollocks - it’s rail travel, no one’s expecting that information to be entirely correct, but at least it’s a gesture. And that’s further than one might get without the internet at 10pm on a Thursday night, isn’t it?

Another reason: just the amount of stuff that’s out there.

Example: we were talking about pizza. Again. This time, we were having conversation about the nicest pizza we had ever eaten - and though it is not my favourite-favourite, I do have a soft spot in my heart for a pizzeria in California, mainly because I had a lot of it. So possibly a soft spot in my heart and a hard spot in my arteries. Whatever.

I was in California for a couple of months in my second year of my first degree (HA! Sorry, that just sounds so damned stupid and pompous and silly) and because we were not quite 21 and many of the people we were with were - or had convincing ID - we spent a lot of time at the cinema or at the pizzeria or at home studying our lines and watching television and eating delivery pizza.

Whatever - it was damn good pizza. So every now and again I like to go and look it up and read through their menu and see if they’ve extended their delivery zone to cover South East England yet. They haven’t, apparently.

Anyway, last time I was there, gazing at the pizzas, I took some time to find out all about the place. And this whole story of somewhere I’d frequented a few (dozen) times ten years ago made me feel all excited again about the internet - about the fact that just like there are stories barely touched on just waiting to get excavated. On the internet.

I don’t even know what it was about the story. Perhaps just the aspirations about these two young restauranteurs in the mid-eighties. Or the fact they were known to all and sundry as Chuck and Chew - always in that order, please note; I think they had at least some business acumen, and could tell that the opposite way round would not a good positive mental image make for new restaurant PR.

Anyway, they already had one restuarant in place, they had picked the location, the atmosphere, the perfect decor for the the new one in this little town - hell, they’d even picked the manager. And Then They Mysteriously Died In An Aircrash Flying Down To Vegas The Week Before The Opening.

Sorry, I got a bit ‘last week, on Murder She Wrote…’ there. Anyway, I don’t know if the new manager’s alibi was ever firmly established, the story kind of went off in a different direction at that point.

It was just … I don’t know what it was. It was just somewhat inspiring somehow. God rest the souls of Chew and Chuck for that.

Sorry, Chuck and Chew.

December is a long dark wet road filled with large holes and ghosts and large-toothed angry beasts (not kittens, other, metaphorical ones) and slippery patches and barbed wire and large holes and I hate it very much indeed.

I realise I have said this isn’t going to turn into a catblog (not that there’s anything wrong with that, obv) and it isn’t. So I’m alternating between kitten and non-kitten posts.

But while they’re taking so much of my attention, they surely will appear. And then they will become - like my beloved (sorry darling) and like any children we may have (sorry, futurespawn) - merely bit part players in the blog that is, by nature of the beast, All About Me. Me me me me me. ME! Yay blogs!

Anyway.

Cute kitten thing of the day: They have deciphered stairs. This means that now at least some of the time they spend chasing each other around includes chasing each other either up the stairs or down the stairs. And we have several stairs. Because that’s how the houses are around here.

HOWEVER. While Rabbit/Pedro/Hilary/Chicken/Pisswit is lithe and jumpy, Cat/Widget is determined but small and round with short legs.
Widget going down the stairs is the hot ticket in this town, frankly.

She can only do one at once. Because of having short legs and being round - a combination of natural build and having had worms for most of her little life.
So she drops down one step at a time - so you always have the front feet hitting, and the back feet hitting.
And with each step she seems to need to expunge a small bit of air, which produces a ‘MEEP!’, like a squeaky toy being bounced hard against the floor which, I suppose, she kind of is. And is.

Anyway, you know when Widget is coming down the stairs, because it makes a noise like this.

ThudMEEP! … Thud.
ThudMEEEP! … Thud.
ThudMEEP! … Thud.
MEEPthud! … Thud. (I don’t know how that works, but take my word)
ThudMEEP! … Thud.
ThudMEEP!! … Thud.
ThudMEEP!Thud.
ThudMEEEP! … Thud.

Until she reaches the bottom, finds a set of people who have just melted from the cuteness of it all, and wanders up, sniffs them, tries to lick their puddled remains and starts purring.

Yes, I AM the owner of the two cutest beings on the planet.
I’m also covered in small nicks and scratches.
It’s swings and roundabouts.

NB: The next post will not be about anything feline. It will be about something Serious and Butch and Important.

Honestly.
Don’t go.

I had to have a haircut the other day, so I made myself an appointment at the local organic hairdressers.

Yes, I know how that sounds. Please understand that

a) I live in a wanky part of Brighton.
(I realise to some people that may as well read ‘I live in a wanky wank wank wankwank’. This is a conversation I am well used to having.)

b) It’s the nearest place to my house and …

c) … the only place I can remember the name of, for that very reason.

d) I’m so scared of hairdressers I have to just wait for ages then ring up on the spur of the moment to the first place I can remember the name of and hope they have an appointment for the same day.
If they don’t, it may be several more months before I summon up the courage again.
On Saturday, they did.

Also, I was always very curious to what ‘Organic Haircutting’ meant - or whatever the hell they have on their natural-hued sign - as in my imagination, it meant that there were likely to be people scraping the chemicals off my hair with some kind of coral before allowing a herd of sheep to gently nibble my loosed locks into whatever cut they democratically agreed between them would suit me best.

Disappointingly, they turned out to use scissors.

More than that, they used the sweetest, thickest hair-washing lad I have ever encountered in all my many unhappy hairdressed days.

We got to that part where they massage your head - as they do in every hairdressing salon where they think it means they can therefore charge the price of a winter coat to do your barnet. A cheap winter coat, I mean. People keep forgetting to pay me. I’m not made of money.

He, bless him, had been talking crap for whole tens of minutes while washing my hair down with tepid water he quite frequently sprayed straight down my prone, hairwashing-vulnerable body, covering me from chin to crotch in water.

We’d talked about chemicals, and lavender, and how he thought he’d heard that you shouldn’t wash your hair for a week after a haircut (no, said the other hairwasher, that was a colouring treatment). He was clearly inexperienced, and really sweet, and my god when I was his age I couldn’t have had the confidence to deal with strangers like he does.

He had squirted on the conditioner, and then, in a massage-posture, he laid his fingers to my skull like someone failing to find the holes on their bowling ball and trying just to make their own in the meantime. As he rubbed his thumbs in smooth-yet-heavy circles - so heavy, in fact, that I could feel my eyeballs binging back into place every time he let loose for a second.

it is the kind of situation I cannot complain about, because I find it too funny.

Here I am, afeared of going to these classy places because I am not classy enough, and because everyone is prettier and, thinner and everyone else knows better, and will laugh at me hating having to look at myself in a mirror for an hour and a half, knowing how much I’m hating it. I am so scared of them. And yet I am sitting here with a 12-year-old trying to digitally stimulate my frontal lobe the hard way (eg: without removing my skull first) and I realise that there’s not, as always, anything scary about the other people here. And when it comes to the mirror, I can always shut my eyes.

But right now, there’s a fair chance I’m going to end up with brain bruising. Or a fractured skull, care of an over-zealous hair-washing assistant. At some points it hurts so much, and I’m so far away from it all, that I can’t help but giggle.

“Oh! Am I too hard?” Says the terrible, terrified, mortified wet-hair-mortician.

“No no” say I, as shit as ever I am at complaining.
“I’m just thinking about something silly… from somewhere else… something funny. You carry on. You’re fine.”
I lie.

“You wait, too soon you’ll say ‘I preferred you when you were sick’ ” Said Elayne in the comments earlier in the week

This is not, of course, true. Much. I mean, feeding rabbit special squishy food with a syringe when she lost her appetite over the weekend was, you know, an experience - but I am glad they are now totally on the mend and have appetites back to full.

Letting me know that by climbing up me at first sniff of my smoked salmon crispbreaddy supper thing, standing on my shoulder and repeatedly farting from the sheer excitement, however, was slightly less cute than it might sound.

It doesn’t even sound that cute.

- I noticed, for the first time, the other day, that the local bagel shop has the slogan ‘We don’t cut corners‘. Which I love.

- No, actually, there was some more stuff, but I forgot it because I am awfully tired. I think I will tomorrow. Or at least I hope I will, otherwise I am surely destined for the glue factory, and soon.

- This winter thing isn’t any good.

- For people who wanted pictures of kittens, there is a small pile here, although there aren’t as many of them looking less sicky, I will take some and add them.

- Seriously, something else has happened in my first blogless days in the last six and half years, honest they did. I just can’t remember what it was. There was work. And some kittens. And some …

Let me sleep on that.