Tasty
Sprung up with a song on my lips. To be precise a Township jazz version of There's no sunshine when she's gone, as featured on the Today programme. I then had to play it on guitar too for a while, between avidly consuming the Guardian's report of Chelsea's destruction of Liverpool.
The old Mad Dog meanwhile stirred uneasily upstairs, before eventually he got up to catch a train. It had been great to see him as usual. Considerately he also left his packed lunch behind in my fridge, which I enjoyed later. Turns out Mad Dogs eat an unusual combination of sardines, spelt, spinach and mango, which was all rather healthy.
A note from Romy saying that her bean jar was a success and "I asked the Tobster if he could compare my bean jar with bean jars from his childhood. Unfortunately your brother couldn’t provide me with any feedback except that your grandmother’s bean jar was tasty and that mine was tasty but in a different way."
Tasty is of course a high accolade indeed from Toby and this made me laugh a good deal. Also chatted to Mum.
I'd earmarked today for doing my Pharma client work - however the BT server gods were against me and prevented Internet access, which was rather frustrating. On the plus side, however, I received a large cheque through the post.
At three, and feeling slightly braindead, I met my new friend Randolph for a long chat over a Starbucks coffee. He is about to direct his play Only Free Men in Lewes, and I'm looking forward to seeing it. Good to talk to someone about books and writing for hours, and had me digging out some old books when I got home. He reminded me that Schopenhauer had thrown a woman down the stairs because she was making too much noise outside his apartment, and after a court case had to compensate her every year until she died. I will remember that when people are making too much noise in the Twitten.
Home and had an evening with Lorraine. I had a quiet nap on the gold sofa, while Lorraine cooked some tasty curry. Then we simply watched TV including a show called, hilariously, The Mentalist, which is not a comedy at all, but an excruciatingly acted cop show from the states.
The Brighton Argus had a picture of Anna and Klaudia and Oskar in it today, in a feature about women running both businesses and families.
Sprung up with a song on my lips. To be precise a Township jazz version of There's no sunshine when she's gone, as featured on the Today programme. I then had to play it on guitar too for a while, between avidly consuming the Guardian's report of Chelsea's destruction of Liverpool.
The old Mad Dog meanwhile stirred uneasily upstairs, before eventually he got up to catch a train. It had been great to see him as usual. Considerately he also left his packed lunch behind in my fridge, which I enjoyed later. Turns out Mad Dogs eat an unusual combination of sardines, spelt, spinach and mango, which was all rather healthy.
A note from Romy saying that her bean jar was a success and "I asked the Tobster if he could compare my bean jar with bean jars from his childhood. Unfortunately your brother couldn’t provide me with any feedback except that your grandmother’s bean jar was tasty and that mine was tasty but in a different way."
Tasty is of course a high accolade indeed from Toby and this made me laugh a good deal. Also chatted to Mum.
I'd earmarked today for doing my Pharma client work - however the BT server gods were against me and prevented Internet access, which was rather frustrating. On the plus side, however, I received a large cheque through the post.
At three, and feeling slightly braindead, I met my new friend Randolph for a long chat over a Starbucks coffee. He is about to direct his play Only Free Men in Lewes, and I'm looking forward to seeing it. Good to talk to someone about books and writing for hours, and had me digging out some old books when I got home. He reminded me that Schopenhauer had thrown a woman down the stairs because she was making too much noise outside his apartment, and after a court case had to compensate her every year until she died. I will remember that when people are making too much noise in the Twitten.
Home and had an evening with Lorraine. I had a quiet nap on the gold sofa, while Lorraine cooked some tasty curry. Then we simply watched TV including a show called, hilariously, The Mentalist, which is not a comedy at all, but an excruciatingly acted cop show from the states.
The Brighton Argus had a picture of Anna and Klaudia and Oskar in it today, in a feature about women running both businesses and families.
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