What an altogether odd week.
This whole “insomnia” thing is being odd. I can get to sleep without the horse tranquilisers, but shit keeps waking me up—sleep deprivation has interesting, if rather unwelcome effects.
It also leads to me being antisocial. Aside from the hill today and the org meeting on Wednesday I’ve been a famously indoors version of myself. We discovered the leaking boiler on Thursday, when the rug had soaked up as much water as it was going to. It had been leaking since Tuesday lunchtime. As a result of this, the kitchen smells of damp—it’s got into the tongue-and-groove of the hardwood floor. This is less than good. Any suggestions on how to stop toe kitchen smelling of wet dog?
On a more positive note, we headed to Stirling yesterday so I could brave the Wallace Monument. Why people insist on building these things up high I will never know. On the other hand, it was a glorious day for it, and the views were spectacular. And hell, I’ve got to climb these things or I’ll just end up even more boring than I already am. But why don’t more of these things involve other people’s phobias? Why doesn’t the grave of Robert the Bruce surround itself with spiders, and why don’t we loose a huge number of snakes on the Eiffel Tower– that’d be a wonderful sequel to Snakes on a Plane.
Today involved chicken. I’d been promising myself a roast for a while, so what the hell? It also involved waking up early—seven in the morning on a Sunday isn’t a time I will ever come to terms with—but after six whole hours of sleep. Hence, the kitchen has an overpowering whiff of roast chicken, especially if one is foolish enough to open the fridge. Moohoohahaha.