It's 6:45am and Pol and I are both overwhelmingly enthusiastic about being awake at this hour. Yes indeedy. I'm now dressed, although not booted, coated, scarfed and hatted. Pol is getting into the bath I ran for him and presumably checking out the large cup of tea I made. I can be nice, sometimes.
I breakfasted on wood-smoked Skippers (brisling), which are very small, very delicious fish that will probably turn out to be ethically horrible, but they are so very, very delicious. Moth, when presented with a single fish in tomato sauce, carefully ate all the tomato sauce and left the fish intact. Well, then.
My little weather gadget tells me that outside it's raining, 7C and with the faintest of breezes. My clock says my room is at a massive 20.7C. No wonder Pol is complaining he's been cooked all night. I strongly suspect the heating has been left on, which means we will be short on gas. The landlord has finally agreed to real meters, on receipt of a £250 bond. Frankly, it'll pay for itself within a few months, so we're going for it.
I still have more books to sort than I know how to deal with, and I need to remember to bother Tim for clips and things since at the moment the room is full of what are just boxes until the rest is put together.
I want Rochdale to have a little snow on the hills when we go there. It doesn't have to be much. Then Pol goes off to his interview and I go back to Bolton in a taxi with an unhappy, freshly vaccinated cat.
My head hurts. I know this is not news. I'm pondering aspirin or just having a joyous pain-free day of Tramadol in return for the risk of a worse headache when I am safely tucked in bed, and possible nausea meanwhile. If I take Tramadol, I might be able to go shopping. I am running out of food and Moth's been down to just biscuits for a couple of days. It's a thought, isn't it?
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