Good Boy

A monkish Monday, as Lorraine was with Maureen all day, and was a bit zonko when she returned. However she did arrive with a present for me: a new jam thermometer, one with a sensible metal prong, with a dial at the top of it. Sometimes, and this is one of them, I feel like this has been ghost written by Charles Pooter. 

I completed proofing and tweaking a short story called Good Boy, and is, among other things, about unspeakable canines. If published (I sent it off this evening) it won't play well in Barking or the Isle of Dogs. 

Otherwise: to the gym. Later, I cooked us a cheeky curry and watched a documentary about Manchester City and Pep Guardiola. How City have done so well under Pep beats me. I wonder how his players can understand what he says in his briefings. Luckily Amazon have subtitled it.

We went to bed early to read. Blissfully cool night air. All well. 

Charles Pooter, on the right of the drawing.