Life continues apace, which is definitely better than the alternative, as my stepdad used to say.
The flat needs a lot of moving around, but we're officially in now, seeing as we got the last few boxes of Pinky's crap from her old house, apart from some sieve thing and some food in it and a camping kettle she left, she informs me.I'm really not sure how we'll cope without a fucking camping kettle, so I guess I'll have to drive back there and get it. "But it whistles," she says. Well that makes all the bloody difference then. If it wasn't for the fact that I want the sieve to strain my beloved supernoodles, I'd tell her to cram it.
(She's watching me type all this btw, so it's not like I'm talking about her behind her back - she knows what a pain in the arse she is.
)
Right, piccys:
The bedroom, before it got filled with 6 tonnes of Pinky's stuff.
Lounge
The lounge again, with a view of our nice green wall, which may end up with a mural on it.
Your amazing neighbourhood Pinklet, trying to be classy...
...and failing.
Hobbes, being a camera slut.
Mim, who has the eyes of a Balrog and defies gravity in odd ways. (not that there's a normal way as such.)
I rest my case. This is crying out to be a lolcat, but I've drawn a blank. Any takers?
"I are most displeased."
Hobbes with his patented and semi-permenant bewildered look.
Contented Mim.
An odd little house I saw on the way to Chew Stoke the other day. You can walk around it in 5 seconds or so and it's on a little triangle of grass inbetween the junction of three roads.
I walked into the lounge and saw a random piece of thread which wierdly, was in the shape of a treble clef. Odd coincidence or proof of a worldwide conspiracy of musicians, trying to take over the planet?
You decide.
The flat needs a lot of moving around, but we're officially in now, seeing as we got the last few boxes of Pinky's crap from her old house, apart from some sieve thing and some food in it and a camping kettle she left, she informs me.I'm really not sure how we'll cope without a fucking camping kettle, so I guess I'll have to drive back there and get it. "But it whistles," she says. Well that makes all the bloody difference then. If it wasn't for the fact that I want the sieve to strain my beloved supernoodles, I'd tell her to cram it.
(She's watching me type all this btw, so it's not like I'm talking about her behind her back - she knows what a pain in the arse she is.
)
Right, piccys:
The bedroom, before it got filled with 6 tonnes of Pinky's stuff.
Lounge
The lounge again, with a view of our nice green wall, which may end up with a mural on it.
Your amazing neighbourhood Pinklet, trying to be classy...
...and failing.
Hobbes, being a camera slut.
Mim, who has the eyes of a Balrog and defies gravity in odd ways. (not that there's a normal way as such.)
I rest my case. This is crying out to be a lolcat, but I've drawn a blank. Any takers?
"I are most displeased."
Hobbes with his patented and semi-permenant bewildered look.
Contented Mim.
An odd little house I saw on the way to Chew Stoke the other day. You can walk around it in 5 seconds or so and it's on a little triangle of grass inbetween the junction of three roads.
I walked into the lounge and saw a random piece of thread which wierdly, was in the shape of a treble clef. Odd coincidence or proof of a worldwide conspiracy of musicians, trying to take over the planet?
You decide.
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