Round up or square down?

Once again, I don't really have time to type out an entry, but as the caffeine has not yet properly kicked in, I am not confident of my abilities to concentrate on Matters of National Import^TM.

The past few days have been quite astonishingly busy, and by the time I get home of a night I have been pretty much in full zombie mode, which has left me with too much nervous energy to go to bed early, but not enough energy of any other kind to do much more than stare at telly or peer blearily at the computer. I have even found it difficult to concentrate on reading a book, and considering that I am currently reading the latest Sharpe (I do like Bernard Cornwell), this is a little surprising.

Last night was an evening out in the Royal Oak with the north London mob, which I was not entirely prepared for, and a good time was had once I managed to get my second (third) wind. For the first half hour or so, I was just too tired to do much, but that passed.

Unfortunately, since I arrived at about 7.20, I was already 2½ hours behind the unemployed member of the group who was well into his cups (and yes, I know you're reading this), and though far from drunk, declaiming louder and louder on diverse subjects. I shan't mention the subject that caused most merriment to both us and the pub in general, since it might upset a potential casual passer-by to this journal.

It's more funny than anything else, but I can understand why it's probably best left unmentioned. Having said that, I could write the entry and mark it for a restricted readership, couldn't I? Then I could go into full details without the principal parties ever knowing.

There's a thought. (Has he written it up or, hasn't he?).

I can feel the caffeine beginning to take effect. Off then to the smoking room for a lung full of nicotine and then down to some work, fully awake and appropriately wired.

Round up or square down?

Once again, I don't really have time to type out an entry, but as the caffeine has not yet properly kicked in, I am not confident of my abilities to concentrate on Matters of National Import^TM.

The past few days have been quite astonishingly busy, and by the time I get home of a night I have been pretty much in full zombie mode, which has left me with too much nervous energy to go to bed early, but not enough energy of any other kind to do much more than stare at telly or peer blearily at the computer. I have even found it difficult to concentrate on reading a book, and considering that I am currently reading the latest Sharpe (I do like Bernard Cornwell), this is a little surprising.

Last night was an evening out in the Royal Oak with the north London mob, which I was not entirely prepared for, and a good time was had once I managed to get my second (third) wind. For the first half hour or so, I was just too tired to do much, but that passed.

Unfortunately, since I arrived at about 7.20, I was already 2½ hours behind the unemployed member of the group who was well into his cups (and yes, I know you're reading this), and though far from drunk, declaiming louder and louder on diverse subjects. I shan't mention the subject that caused most merriment to both us and the pub in general, since it might upset a potential casual passer-by to this journal.

It's more funny than anything else, but I can understand why it's probably best left unmentioned. Having said that, I could write the entry and mark it for a restricted readership, couldn't I? Then I could go into full details without the principal parties ever knowing.

There's a thought. (Has he written it up or, hasn't he?).

I can feel the caffeine beginning to take effect. Off then to the smoking room for a lung full of nicotine and then down to some work, fully awake and appropriately wired.