... and the sloth has continued.
It's because it's cold.
I hibernate in the cold.
Last night singing in the shower "papercuts make me blue, especially when inflicted by manilla folders, who knew, beige could be so cruel" for no good reason at all but that it popped into my head to the tune of 'Paris by Night' which is in the stage version of Victor Victoria which I was sort of watching because I was avoiding the football.
And the rest of this working week and next bodes ill and I didn't win the house in that RSL raffley thingy which is sad, as it seemed quite a nice house and I was imagining my inside cats being allowed outside on the 1.2 hectares of land the house was sitting on and watching them come to terms with grass, but it is not to be.
I don't normally obsess about winning lotto and houses in raffley thingies, it is just a side affect (or is it effect?) of my being unhappy at work and wishing I were retired.
Though actually I think what I wish for is my own home and part-time work. Some work would be nice. Gets one out of the house.
A necessary thing for a relatively solitary person like myself. I shall end up like that lady in Sydney who was dead for eight years on the floor of her flat and nobody noticed :)
Except possibly also eaten by cats.
(paraphrasing Bridget Jones' old and eaten by alsations)
(affect or effect - I should look that up and get it tattooed to my forearm - I never remember)
... to be continued