The weight of the real

Final Monday in Haywards Heath. Money successfully wired through to solicitors, discussions with Rentokil about woodworm treatment scheduled for next week with a man called Sunny. Hoovering in preparation for the Estate agent photographer, who when he arrived forced Brian's removal from the scene on more than one occasion. Then into Haywards Heath to buy light-bulbs, interdental sticks, Brussels sprouts and so on. Brought to mind my old friend MSR, shaking his head and sighing about 'the weight of the real'. The glamour quotient presently very low.

Fiddling about with the look and feel of Peter Kenny The Writer Ltd. which will be launched on an unsuspecting world at some point after the move. Also swapping emails with Robin about Telltale and we are going to meet up next week once the move is done, and some of the dust has settled. Poking the weird lump between my ribs, which the quack was unconcerned about. It seems larger and more sore when I poke it.  Lorraine advised me not to poke it. My wife is the tops.

Below from the perfectly pleasant back door I can see this tree that birds sit in. Sometimes when there is only one perched on a twisty branch it looks quite Japanese. I'm not getting out much.