Andy's Glasses

At the ‘last supper’ of our Devon & Cornwall world tour last Friday, wonderful dinner, small dining room, there was inevitable blah, blah, blah with the couple on the next table. He was old. An Englishman who moved to New Joisey in 1960 and lived there ever since. She a bit younger, second wife, also English, now a nurse ‘over there’. Damned Yanks. Now you know as much as I do about this couple. He is in fact a retired optician and they were over for a wedding. So far so good, in that ‘few glasses of wine, fabulous meal, tables 3 feet apart, kind of way’. He had a curious accent that was 1 part Artful Dodger, 3 parts Goodfellas. And all was well until we mentioned our trip to Ground Zero. At which point The Man (never asked his name, certainly not after what followed) leaned over and informed me quietly but firmly, that the whole disaster that was 9/11 was ‘done by the American government, you know?’ No, I didn’t know that, in fact, did you?

Well, apparently, the ‘evidence’ that it wasn’t all as we thought is ‘massive’. That the hole in the Pentagon wasn’t plane-shaped. That the World Trade Center towers came straight down, causing no damage to adjacent buildings, and that would never happen, that photographic evidence is overwhelming that Al Quaeda couldn’t have done it, therefore the FBI, the CIA, Homeland, whoever, did it themselves. And he was serious. I sat there with my mouth open, aghast, with some half-chewed beetroot risotto with smoked bream pate and a hint of parsley reduction just kind’a hanging off my lower lip. Not my best look.

I asked, as you have to, what could possibly have been the motivation of the American government to murder 3000 of its own citizens, most of them registered voters, destroy half of New York and upset the entire world? The answer was that enabled the invasion of Iraq and changed the way airports are secured so that the good people of the USA can be better kept track of. He wasn’t big on motivation. Wasn’t as relevant in his eyes as the ‘evidence’, which was as huge as anything generally is in the world of the paranoid conspiracy theorist.

Strange how from one moment talking to a ‘normal guy’ changes in an instant and a switch trips in my head. The one that turns on the ‘nutter alert’. And he went on and on and on and on about this ridiculous theory. No, not just a ‘theory’, this is the only way it could have happened.

Then yesterday I read that within 2 years all taxis will take credit cards. And I came up with my own conspiracy theory.

When someone is at the cash register paying for a packet of chewing gum with a debit card, I simply want to kill them. Do these people not carry 50p in cash? So that the entire purchase process can be done with in 20 seconds instead of 20 minutes? Yet we are all encouraged to be ‘cashless’ and damn the queues of frustrated purchasers waiting behind you.

Yet if every transaction is electronically registered, even paying a taxi fare, the government know so much more about us. And so does HMRC. Taxi drivers all earn £200,000 a year, but only declare £26.72, after expenses, petrol and window cleaning sprays. The rest is all cash and no-one’s any the wiser. Until 2 years time, when they’ll know everything.

So Micheal Caine can lodge 15 million in a tax ‘avoidance’ scheme but a taxi driver can’t take a tenner to buy a surgical support for his disabled child… (can you ever have enough pathos?)

Happy Friday; go to the cashpoint today and draw out a handful. Fuck the government.

A xxxx

Are you old enough to remember telephone conversations like this:

“Hello, I’d like to do something”

“Yes, that’s no problem, sir, let me just do it for you. There. Anything else I can help you with?”

Today its all password-protected. PIN numbers. Security questions. More security questions. Data (fucking) protection. The curse on modern society. Which I can almost forgive when dealing with banks and sensitive matters, but when you go in with cash to pay the paper bill in the sweetshop and they ask for your mother’s uncle’s favourite football team after Acrington Stanley got relegated, you know the world is fucked up beyond all belief.

That actually didn’t happen. Hasn’t happened. Not yet; but its only a matter of time before they won’t sell you a skinny latte without a PIN number. Those fucking Eurocrats have so much to answer for. But they can’t answer it until they’ve passed ‘security’. It would be in breach of so many rules that Brussels would fall. If only.

The other day my darling elder daughter broke her phone. Again. Fortunately for me this is no longer my problem because I sold her last year. Well, she got married last year so is no longer my responsibility. Except where O2 are concerned. Because the original contract on her first, steam-driven, brick-sized phone was taken out in my name, 14 years ago. And even though it is actually mentioned in the ancient Hebrew texts, brought by Moses’ nephew from the banks of the Euphrates, that “…and thus upon marriage shallst all mobile phonage be transferred, according to G-d’s will, to the husband, as it is written, including all free minutes and texts…” even with that, its still ‘my’ phone. Even though she pays the bills and gets all the documents.

I won’t catalogue the entire sequence of events, which started with a visit by Natalie to her local O2 shop, followed by a call for me to visit mine, as its ‘all in my name and they can’t talk to her’, but don’t worry, everything’s on the system’, which it obviously wasn’t. We met up and went together, an hour later Natalie emerged, pale and defeated, telling me that although when I’d left 50 minutes before having provided the necessary iris scan, fingerprinting and DNA sample, they told me I’d done my bit. Several phone calls later, setting up new, ‘transfer passwords’ and other total corporate bollox from a company proving again and again that when it comes to incompetence, no-one does it better, the phone actually started working. The new one.

Well, that was easy. Only took two people 6 hours to sort out something that should have taken 10 minutes.

Even more frustrating was the football last night. Has there ever been a more boring, dull, drab, dire game played. Extra time was horrible. What? Another half hour of that shit!!!

Germany deserve to win the World Cup on the grounds that they actually try to win matches. Which is very different from trying not to lose them. There were no winners last night. Wish I’d gone to bed early.

Happy Thursday; you’ll be fine as long as you don’t try to do anything.

A xxxx

Well, no-one gave ‘us’ a chance, but ‘we’ not only beat Brazil last night but thrashed them; humiliated them, put the complete socio-economic fabric of the entire nation back ten years and caused levels of pain, suffering and chest-beating amoung survivors not normally witnessed outside of an earthquake zone.

I’ve never been prouder to be a German. In fact, I’ve never been a German before now. Never had a need to be. But after such a performance, I think its time to seriously reconsider my roots, to dig deep, get in touch with my inner ‘who do you think you are’ and find a Ludvig van Conway (or Ludvig van Cohen, as it would have been) who fled Prussian persecution in 1736 and ran off to instead find persecution in Poland, Russia or points east.

Football is famously a ‘game of two halves’. And I missed the first half. Oh. No. Yes, I did. Was playing bridge. The tv was on elsewhere but running inside to see what was happening every time a goalish cheer went up actually became exhausting during the first half so I sat nursing my cards and pretending I wasn’t German at all. By the time the second half started the match, as it was, was over as a competition. Only Spurs could possibly squander a 5-0 half time lead. Not Germany. They- sorry, ‘we’, are too organised, too regimented, too… too damned jack-booted and straight-laced to collapse under the renewed Brazillian second half assault. Which itself was pretty half-hearted, even after a half time pep talk by Big Phil Scoliari that doubtless included phrases like “THE WHOLE FUCKING COUNTRY IS GOING TO HATE YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY!!!!!!!!” and subtleties like that. “No pressure, guys, but if you lose this game YOU WON’T MAKE IT OUT OF THE CAR PARK ALIVE. If the fans don’t kill you THEN I FUCKING WILL!!!!”

Yet I’m saddened, even as a victorious German through and through. Because Brazil (and you always consider all previous teams when you use the word collectively) play the game as it should really be played. With passion, with love, with masses of skill and most of all, with abundant enjoyment. Only the South Americans can really do that. Brazil more than all others. Usually. They didn’t seem to enjoy last night so much, granted. And their loss will certainly deflate the wonderful feeling of the tournament to a degree.

But sadly, reality bites. And if you’re not that over-blessed with true Brazillian superstars, and the only one who can truly claim membership to that wonderful club is out injured, then you kind’a need to sort out your defense a bit. Poor David Luiz. From hero, poster boy (in the absence of Neymar) and superstar goal-scorer last week, to total fucking liability and tosser, in just 45 minutes of the perfect demonstration of ‘how to defend in football. If you’re in the pay of a far-eastern gambling syndicate’. But it wasn’t just Luiz, the entire back four were worse than useless, defensive midfielders became just midfielders and all went to shit as confidence crumbled and inevitability took its grip.

A sad day for Brazil, but here in Germany, let’s break out another case of Leibfraumilch and sing some marching songs.

Happy Wednesday (in some places)

A xxxx

After the feast comes the famine. And I’m not referring to my first few days of not having Cornish Cream Teas. Issa metaphor, innit. And it refers to the first day when suddenly, there’s no sport to watch. Yesterday. Black Monday. Tennis is finished, footballers resting. All that happened was about 200 men in lycra whizzed by, about 500 yards from where I work, on pushbikes. I didn’t actually make it down on to the Embankment to see them; I see cyclists every day whizzing round the streets of London ignoring the traffic lights. Normally everyone, motorists, pedestrians, jaywalkers, just ignores them as a pest on society, but stick a yellow jacket on one and suddenly it becomes: Le Tour de France. In the City of London, and 2 million northerners with nothing better to do, come and line our streets to watch this collective whizzing.

So in the absence of proper (ie not sitting down) sport, the peoples of Europe have to find other distractions. So they’re running the bulls in Pamplona this week. Always lots of fun, that one. Running down narrow streets with a herd of wild 3 ton bovines, hoping that the person who gets gored, or trampled, is someone else. Not very altruistic, those Spaniards. Ever since they left the World Cup…

But I love these ancient celebrations. I love their diversity and creativity and in fact their total stupidity. Yes, your great-great-grandfather’s great-great-grandfather did this but that doesn’t mean that on the 7th of June you have to put your head on the tracks in front of oncoming train. Nor that on the 15th of August you put on stockings and suspenders and a red hat and leap off a cliff for ‘leming day’. July 23rd is when you dress as a druid and eat grapefruit. Whilst in Norfolk, the whole of April is ‘shag-yer-cousin’ month. As is May, June, July…

In Belarus yesterday was the pagan festival of Ivan Kapala (just don’t even bother asking) in which young ladies in long white dresses jump over fires. Great idea. Why not douse the dresses in petrol to make it even more stupid. But heh; if it makes a Belarusian happy for the day, then the world is a happier place to live in. Even without football.

The enquiry into child abuse in instittutions in our fine (???) and apparently perverted land is as necessary as it is late. What is more incredible is the apparent scale of this problem. I can’t believe (hope?) that more than say 5% of people are potential paedophiles, and yet some institutions would appear to increase this to about 90%. Obviously such horrible and vile people would find themselves to be drawn towards children, leaving schools, orphanages, hospitals obvious career choices, along with the priesthood. But the BBC? And fucking Parliament?? Whereas those in Westminster who aren’t kiddy-fiddlers would seem to be just normal rapists. Who are almost the ‘good guys’ of government. What the f***???

Does anyone in the world want Germany to beat Brazil tonight? Including Germans?

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Those damned Yanks. Not a clue between them. They come to London, go and watch Martin Freeman in Richard III at the theatre and once he’s done his ‘now is the winter of our discontent…’ soliloque, they clap. Applaud!!!! At a theatre!! Which is shameful and not what we do over here. And for good reason. Actors on stage have to get ‘into character’ far more keenly than those on screen. There are no retakes, no fuck-ups to end up on the director’s floor, there is just the moment. And that moment is shattered if the audience break into applause. It upsets the flow. Which is why British audiences (at least we’re the best at something) never applaud until the end of an act. Its not fair on the actors to do otherwise. Bleeding precious luvvies that they are.

Americans will generally clap and ‘whoop!’ at anything. Its what they do. That and Middle East invasions. They even clap at a cinema screen on occasion. Which, if you think about it, is just a touch weird.

But worse still is that these audiences who have so upset the ‘true’ theatre-goers don’t applaud great acting. No, they only applaud ‘stars’. And because Martin Freeman a Lord of the Rings star, and was totally brilliant in the tv series Fargo, he gets cheered and applauded on stage, whereas other perhaps lesser known actors, equally excellent, don’t. Its like the world of ‘Hello!’ has arrived at the stage door.

And is it the end for Roger Federer? Was yesterday’s amazing final possibly his last? I hope not, I truly love the man, in a very butch and back-slappy, manly kind of way, obviously. Yesterday’s match was simply incredible. And odd how such a majority were supporting Fed, the good guy, the white knight, and not Djokovich, cast in the Darth Vader, forces of evil role. Even Kate and Wills abandoned thier normal impartiality to cheer for Roger. Everyone wanted him to win. Other than the child molesters, rapists, people who eat at KFC, wife-beaters, terrorists and Lib Dems. They were on Novak’s side.

But it wasn’t to be. And even I have to admit that the Serb was very gracious in victory, very humble and even (for a Serb) quite charming. He obviously has a new speech-writer now he’s learning all from Boris Becker. Just don’t let him in the broom cupboard.

Ok, back to work

Happy monday

A xxxx

So that was Cornwall, Devon and the entire south west of England. Stunning, sunny (in the most part) and fab.

Today I’m in Norfolk. As East as you can go without falling off the edge into the North Sea. In fact I’m writing this on the 10.15 from Kings Cross to Kings Lynn (I only travel with, to and from Kings).

Norfolk, legendary place of English rural inbrediness. And yet again, a demonstration of the power of the internet.

Rachie wanted a car. Needed a car. So instead of going out to buy Exchange & Mart, several local papers and looking at postcards in newsagents windows, hoping to find maybe one car; instead with 3 clicks you can find every single car of that type in the entire fucking WORLD that is for sale.

The downside being that there’s no more walking round the corner with a pocketful of cash to pick up your 1972 Ford Escort 1300 E in ‘reasonable condition’, Ferrari Red, except for one of the doors, slight knocking in first gear… and second third and forth, needs a tarpaulin underneath to catch the 3 pints of oil lost each night. Instead, all that you have to do is go to Kings Lynn. Which is 100 miles away. Could have been worse. The car of choice could have been located in Grimsby. Canterbury. Glasgow.

Thus are younger daughter and I on a pilgrimage to the Wild East. A comedian on stage once asked of the audience, as they do: “anyone here from Norfolk?” and a few hands went up and the comic yelled “Hey! High Six”. Which remains to this day one of the finest examples of fabulous stereotyping and cruel judgmentalism ever. The people from East Anglia are NOT inbred, they just appear to be, both physically and biologically.

Last night’s football match between Costa Rica and those smug cheating, diving Dutchmen was indeed a classic. The value of the Holland team, at current market value, give or take, is probably about £350million. The value of the Costa Rica team is approximately $22.50. And yet it came down to the randomness of a penalty shoot-out to produce (what some consider) an unfair winner.

So here’s an idea. Every time a player takes a ‘dive’ during the game, that should reduce the number of penalites to be taken, should the game go that far. In which case, at the end of extra time, Arjen Robben alone would have been on minus 4 and Costa Rica would have rightfully won. Never mind, as we say at Spurs, there’s always four years’ time.

Happy Sunday,

A xxxx

So there you are, in Cornwall, having a seasiderful great time, and its hot and sunny and everything you could dream of that doesn’t come on a plate with either chips or clotted cream. And you’re happy as can be. And then you wake up in the morning and…

…and its pissing down with rain. So what do you do? You’d probably cry and go home, you’re such a wuss. But Mel & I, adventurers to our very cores, we put on our raingear and hit the headland for a coastal walk. Which was as exhilirating and beautiful as it was miserable. So we left Padstow for the next and final destination of this ‘total tour round all of England excpet the bits we’re not doing’, Barnstaple. Which added the perfect extra dimension to the rain; traffic jams. Loads of them. Or maybe just one fucking great big one, I’m not exactly sure. For a small town, those council boys sure know how to fuck up traffic totally and horribly. They must be very proud. And summer season doesn’t start for 2 weeks. God help anyone headed to Barnstaple in August. They’ll still be there in September.

But undaunted by the weather, we watched both the mens semi-finals from Wimbledon AND the Germans beat the French in Brazil. What a stunning afternoon. In a stunning place.

You know sometimes you book stuff up on the internet and you get there and wished computers had never been invented? And other times you just strike gold. Well Barnstaple may not be in the Klondike but found the most amazing hotel.

Its called the Broomhill Arts Hotel and sculpture garden. Its appeal: it was in the right place. Its USP? A ‘garden’ (about the size of Hampstead Heath and more personal forest than garden) filled with all manner of sculptures. All for sale, if you’re interested in a 5 ton painted boulder, a bhudda the size of Croydon or a 17 foot high steel horse. For that awkward corner in the lounge.

Then we had dinner. And the hotel has high praise. 50th best restaurant in greater Barnstaple, top 400 something else. But it was quite spectacular. Inexpensive and fabulous. Like me. Not many things fall into both those categories.

Now I’m home. London never looked so… whatever, after a 215 mile burn down life’s freeways. And Kvitova just won the women’s tennis, even though the other gel, a Canadian, was a bit of a babe.

Happy Saturday, welcome home

A xxxx

we left St Austell, on the south coast of Cornwall, with some degree of sadness, though that lasted til the sun came out and we hit some really fab roads heading towards North Cornwall. And Padstow. The most lovely, quaint, pretty, picturesque little fishing village in the world. Well, in this part of the world certainly and quite frankly that’s all that matters currently. The entire trip, south coast to north; 25 miles. About 40 minutes. Would have been 30 minutes but these Cornish locals insist that every time they pass a school or a 3 house village, they should slow down? I mean; why?

Anyway, Padstow’s so fab that as soon as we arrived we took a ferry somewhere else. Though not a very far somewhere else, just across the bay to a place called ‘Rock’. That’s it; Rock. A very good description of the place really. Though I reckon ‘Sand’ would have been even more appropriate because I’ve never seen a bigger ‘beach’ anywhere. And I’ve seen a few. Even Aussies would go ‘strewth!!!! that’s some fucking beach, mate’. Its half a mile wide and goes on forever. (Normal tolerances apply to all measurements).

The photo is of Mel, in her new dress, on this amazing beach, which we walked for about 6 hours and didn’t reach the end.

The dress was an act of necessity. When packing for ‘a holiday in England’, regardless of the time of year or season, you pack sweaters, coats, jackets, sweat shirts, quilts, scarves, gloves. What you skimp on is sundresses. I know I did. She brought one. And we had another sunny day. In fact every day until today has been fabulously, wonderfully hot and sunny. So we stopped at an Asda, the supermarket. And we bought the dress. For a tenner. Ten quid. Best not to ask how they can do that. Considerations of Chinese children working 17 hours a day in sweat shops in Shanghai or Bolton, for $3 a month are way secondary.

Asda is like the diametric opposite of the Eden Project. They don’t sell sundresses at Eden. But if they did they’d be made of sustainable cotton grown in eco-friendly communes from organically reared whatever-cotton-comes-from things, woven by a workers co-operative who stop work for 30 minutes every hour to meditate and chant, eat home-grown vegetables and perform local dances for each other in prayer. And they’d cost £745 each dress. And be only available in natural beige, as artificial colourings are the devil’s work.

Meanwhile, the World Cup is progressing nicely, there’s a gorgeous Canadian girl in the wimbledon final and Andy (fucking) Murray returned with a vengeance to type. Whinging Scottish misery, stamping his feet and throwing his racquet to the ground. Loser.

Onwards and seawards

Happy friday

A xxxx

Went to the Eden Project yesterday. What a fab… er… thing, that is. Its all, kind’of, eco-bubbles set out in a former clay pit in deepest darkest (or brightest, as it turned out, being about 120 degrees here yesterday) Cornwall. They’ve made an Amazonian rainforest, under immense plastic bubbles, and its like being in Brazil, but without the football. Or snakes. Though they do have animals there, birds and frogs and other insect-eating stuff so they can save on the price of a (very big) can of ‘Raid!’

There’s also a ‘Mediterranean’ bubble, or ‘Biome’ as they unpretentiously call them, offering all the plants and flowers and trees you’d find in the Med. Or by the Med. And humous too. You can get that in the cafe, and that’s a very ‘med’ kind of a dish.

But the Eden project is really not about showing how fucking clever they are at growing stuff. No. Its about goodness and light. Its about ecology and sustainability. Its about recycling and fair trade. Its like the new god. And I walked round, marvelling at the amazing plantlife they have there, every flower totally perfect and probably really sustainable, if you feed it and water it. There’s an exhibition room there too, showing how we abuse the world. The Al Gore Exhibition Centre. Well, that’s what I called it. They call it ‘The Core’. Cos it looks core-ish.

A wonderful equation: trees absorb Carbon Dioxide with sunlight to grow their fruit, which are natural sugars. We eat the sugars (the fat bastards round here do, more than their fair share, it would appear) and breathe out Carbon Dioxide, which the trees then re-absorb… Ya geddit? Perfect.

There was a Smart Car. And a label telling us that every kilometer it travels it expends 100 cubic hectizules of Carbon Dioxide. Or 100 somethings anyway. And I realised that I am an eco-warrior, without even knowing it. Because I don’t drive a Smart car. I drive a fucking monster V8 gas guzzler that eats Smart Cars and recycles their parts as roadkill. So I must produce a zillion gms per square centilitre of CO2 just getting out of the car park. And think how happy that must make the trees, giving them all that carbon? So what I initially felt was an ironic kind of hypocrisy, turning up at Eco-Central in the world’s most uneconomical and unecological car (that’s how they sold it to me, anyway), that I was ‘off message’. But no. Turns out Carbon is god, if you’re a tree, so that makes me a disciple.

I love Cornwall. So hot down here. So eco-friendly.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So here we are in Cornwall. First English summer holiday for 50 years. First time I’ve ever been to Cornwall and Devon. And its bloody wonderful. Though fucking exhausting. There’s so much to do in England. All other countries offer endless sunshine and footballers who dive a lot. England has sooooo much to offer the innocent tourist, like me.

We started our voyage in Lyme Regis. The seaside resort chosen to typify and exemplify the consistency of the genre. And it does. It still has people sitting outside their little beach huts, with an almost smug look, relaxing outside a 5 foot by 6 foot windowless box, that says: ‘yes, I have my beach hut, in pink/blue/green for the week/month/season, and you don’t’. Whilst his children pull on his legs and go: “oh daaaaad, per-leaeaeaeaeaease let me have one of those (fill in overpriced piece of coloured plastic shit of your choice); its oooooonly £526.97!!!!!”

In the intervening 50 years food has changed. But not at the seaside. Its as if a half century of understanding the constituents of our daily bread has simply not reached the ‘bit round the edges’ of our fine nation. As if there’s an assumption that just sitting on a beach in a bikini and a sheepskin coat somehow allows you to metabolise 20 times the fat and sugar you normally would fail to do by just sitting on your arse for 6 hours.

Lunch is fish’n’chips. Its compulsory. By law. We had it. Good but not great. Heavy on grease and batter. Or ‘perfect’ as its known nationally. Then you get an ice cream. To shut the fucking kids up for 20 minutes. Followed by cream tea. Well, you’re in Dairy Country, you’d be a Dairy C-, er… misser out, not to enjoy it. Then Burger and chips for supper. The whole 5-a-day thing is extended at the seaside to include hops. So five pints a day sorts that out then.

We left Lyme Regis whilst we still had one artery between us that wasn’t clogged up and drove down to Cornwall. Which is beautiful, amazing, fabulously interesting and filled with good food. And all of the above.

This was tuesday; it wasn’t planned like this, but kind of evolved around certain things.

8.30. Swim in the pool. Mel’s a swimmer. Like a fish. Gills. Swims every day in the gym so bit of a busman’s holiday for her but I don’t normally (read: ‘ever!!!’) join her. I’m a drowner by nature. But I did what was necessary.

9.00 Breakfast. Don’t ask. Show me a buffet and I’ll show you a pig. Then eat it.

10.00 Tried to find the ‘coastal walk’ along little forest paths. Failed fucking miserably, walking about 6 miles in the process. Knackered. Stopped for ice creams.

1.30 Set off from our base in St Austell for St Michael’s Mount. 60 miles away. Weather had improved so top down on the car and off we speed. St M’s M is brilliant and wonderful and just google it and you can see why. Involves a lot of (more) walking and some light climbing. All for a poxy 11th Century castle on an offshore island that’s accessible by a causeway only at low tide.

5.00 Tea and snack/late lunch on the beach.

6.00 Arrive at Land’s End. Has to be done. Its like where the land, kind’a, ends. And the sea begins. Almost like any beach in the world but in a much more profound way.

7.00 Weather still totally amazing, top still down on the car as we arrive at the Minnack theatre. Built like a Greek amphitheatre, but on a cliff right at the sea. The Tempest. Shakespeare, ya nob. And fantastic Cornish Pasties. Unhealthiest food you can buy. Unless you’re in Lyme Regis.

12.00 Arrived back at hotel. Traffic coming back light to non-existent. Cornwall closes at 9.

So we did geography, history, English, Drama, maths (working out the mileage) and Physical Education. All in one day.

Come to England for your vacation. Then you’ll need a holiday.

And don’t ask me where my blog went yesterday. Or I’ll eat you.

A xxxx