Stairs

Lorraine up at six and out before seven. Found myself worrying about money as I drained my pre-seven cup of tea and Calliope rubbed my face. The sooner I can get the Twitten rented the better. The drain from the Kenny coffers has been unrelenting for the last few months, and earnings have been patchy. After my wee break in Guernsey this weekend I need an unrelenting focus on filthy lucre.

A haircut this morning. I have begun a sudden thinning on top, and the area of concern is annexing virgin territory. When my hair grows the side bits are still thick, which makes my head look ridiculous and vaguely-table shaped. Barber was a man with one of those earrings which stretch the skin into a stringy loop around a hoop, and played in a heavy metal band.

Then to the Twitten, to show a charming American writer called Victoria around my abode accompanied by a Springer Spaniel dog who she spoke to in French. I met them at the station, and discovered that they divide their time between New York (to help the Obama campaign) the French countryside and the UK. Both, however, were wary of the steep stairs.

Cooked a bean jar today. The first time the beany aromas have pervaded The Old Church Hall.

Matt came round early in the evening, and we had a final listen to the CD before giving Simon the thumbs up. Matt has resigned as musical director of the Rainbow Chorus, and says it is like a break up, except with 50 people. He also obtained an ankle injury sliding down some bannisters at Wayne's leaving drinks.

Lorraine home late after sitting in traffic for 3 hours, and then had more work to do. Fed her bean jar. She fell asleep on the sofa, and so to bed.

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