Saturday evening, Sunday morning...

Oh the horror.

I doubt that I can really put it off again, so I suppose that tomorrow I ought to run the Hoover over The Tower. I shall have to take some rubbish and laundry down, too. Best pay attention, I don't want my work shirts to end up in the land fill anymore than I want spring fresh and conditioner softened cigarette packets and random cardboard. So much to think about, and on a Sunday, too.

One of these days I should research the family history and see if there was ever any money in the family, and if so, which bastard lost it, and whether he did so on a card game. If I find out that I am the titular heir to a lost fortune, I shall make it my business to find and piss on the appropriate grave, since that lack of self restraint would be directly responsible for me having to Hoover the carpet.

Sadly, however, I think that the clue is in the name: Lea. It means 'someone who lives in a clearing in a wood, or a field'. This tells me a) that the family is of old and venerable English lineage, and b) that such lineage probably owes more to a long line of Baldrics than it does a long line of aristocracy, impoverished or otherwise. Bum. Of course, that doesn't preclude a self-made millionaire along the line somewhere, but I sincerely doubt it, since the maternal side of the family were tenant farmers along the Welsh border, as far as I can tell, whilst over on the paternal side, I believe they used to be miners in Staffordshire. And I mean that in a "down the pits, you scum and make me rich" sort of way, rather than an "I own twenty mines and a golf club" sort of way, with the forebears doing all the requisite forelock tugging (which may be why I have so little hair: years of serfdom have culled those of us with the forelock gene).

Still, however it gets done, the Hoover must be deployed. A gust of wind blowing in from the window caused an eddy of dust which revealed that the carpet is actually blue, not the rather fetching shade of grey to which I have become accustomed. So, with heavy heart, I shall give it a go. It wouldn't do to let the place get into the state that Clapham enjoyed for much of the time. Especially since I now have plenty of room available.

So, what else happened today?

The wrong side won the FA Cup. That is to say, the right side won, but after the worst performance I have seen for many a year. Who would have thought it possible to feel sorry for ManYoo?

For the third year running, I did the same thing -of which I shall say no more - though only after BBC2 had finished broadcasting Soul Deep, which tonight concentrated on Berry Gordy and the rise of Motown in the 60s.

Before that, I missed the "Bad Wolf" reference, so will have to look again. That appears to be it. I need to get out more.

Saturday evening, Sunday morning...

Oh the horror.

I doubt that I can really put it off again, so I suppose that tomorrow I ought to run the Hoover over The Tower. I shall have to take some rubbish and laundry down, too. Best pay attention, I don't want my work shirts to end up in the land fill anymore than I want spring fresh and conditioner softened cigarette packets and random cardboard. So much to think about, and on a Sunday, too.

One of these days I should research the family history and see if there was ever any money in the family, and if so, which bastard lost it, and whether he did so on a card game. If I find out that I am the titular heir to a lost fortune, I shall make it my business to find and piss on the appropriate grave, since that lack of self restraint would be directly responsible for me having to Hoover the carpet.

Sadly, however, I think that the clue is in the name: Lea. It means 'someone who lives in a clearing in a wood, or a field'. This tells me a) that the family is of old and venerable English lineage, and b) that such lineage probably owes more to a long line of Baldrics than it does a long line of aristocracy, impoverished or otherwise. Bum. Of course, that doesn't preclude a self-made millionaire along the line somewhere, but I sincerely doubt it, since the maternal side of the family were tenant farmers along the Welsh border, as far as I can tell, whilst over on the paternal side, I believe they used to be miners in Staffordshire. And I mean that in a "down the pits, you scum and make me rich" sort of way, rather than an "I own twenty mines and a golf club" sort of way, with the forebears doing all the requisite forelock tugging (which may be why I have so little hair: years of serfdom have culled those of us with the forelock gene).

Still, however it gets done, the Hoover must be deployed. A gust of wind blowing in from the window caused an eddy of dust which revealed that the carpet is actually blue, not the rather fetching shade of grey to which I have become accustomed. So, with heavy heart, I shall give it a go. It wouldn't do to let the place get into the state that Clapham enjoyed for much of the time. Especially since I now have plenty of room available.

So, what else happened today?

The wrong side won the FA Cup. That is to say, the right side won, but after the worst performance I have seen for many a year. Who would have thought it possible to feel sorry for ManYoo?

For the third year running, I did the same thing -of which I shall say no more - though only after BBC2 had finished broadcasting Soul Deep, which tonight concentrated on Berry Gordy and the rise of Motown in the 60s.

Before that, I missed the "Bad Wolf" reference, so will have to look again. That appears to be it. I need to get out more.