AND PLEASE DON'T SING

It cooled down to the seventies after dark, and I left the house feeling much more human than when I had stumbled in over six hours earlier. And it promises to be cooler during the day on Wednesday.
Though having been fooled once -- the internet assured me that it would be mid eighties at most, and it turned out to be ninety five -- it may be optimism to assume accuracy.

Now, for the record, my feet still hurt, I was born to bellyache, and I wish to hurl blame at Republicans, Yuppies, Tourists, and the Bilderbergers for this horrible state of affairs.
Pointless, because only three of those things are actually evil.
But at least we got that out of the way.


There is a discomfort in my legs from several days of excessive heat that knows no bounds. Almost like everything between my sit-upon and my toenails is sick to its stomachs. Tonight was the customary pub-crawl with my friend the bookseller. Neither of us are excessive drinkers, and I don't drink alcohol at all. I had tea.

But first, a smoke.

There were no rats in Spofford. It is more brightly lit than before, and the little beasts are shy.
I miss my small disease-carrying friends. Are they all right? Are they going hungry?
Should I perhaps pack a hunk of cheese in my pockets?


A white man reeking of cheese would exite comment in Chinatown.
Which is where Spofford Alley is.


One thing that speaks favourably of the rats is that they do not sing karaoke.
That shows immense good taste and common sense.
Breeding.



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