Well, not really. Just that coming home was via the Auld Hoose. Again. Damn me for the inveterate alcoholic I am, I had to have a drink. The kind that arrives in four pint glasses along with ten cigarettes and now a cough that can shatter glass. But it was so very worth it.
Talking mad ideas with autopope (Charlie Stross, for people not following my Friends list, but following the Hugo award nominations). Lots of them. Brain is fired. Why do I only have these ideas when people talk me through them or I'm fucked on psychedelics? World+dog will never know.
Need cough syrup. Or not. At least if I cough up blood I get to call a sickie. We shall see.