Ominous rumblings foreshadow an aproaching storm. Last nights interrupted power supply. I baked, slow roast, in my ceiling fan deprived state and wondered why of the six candles I had in a line on a low bookcase, only two were flickering - the rest steady as torchlight. I contemplated my radioless state and the silence and decided to drink the rest of the bottle of wine I had bought to add to the spagboll since the candlelight was insufficient for easy reading.
Tonight the sprinkler has been made redundant and I have braved fat cold raindrops to switch it off.
The thunder, which yesterday I didn't even realise was thunder, is back in long low rolling grumbles reminiscent of a train running past or an extended and rather impressive fart.
My little solar led lights are charged up and ready, just in case and I have finished all the Katherine Kerr books my friend sent me. I am back to re-reading Lois McMaster Bujold books. Wil Anderson is performing but I've not the will-power to drag myself into town. It's hot and I'm stinky and I failed to win powerball.
I shall try and make something of myself tomorrow. It is still Saturday, isn't it?