The house is empty.
Mysweet is working and the children are both out on musical adventures.
I settle into a comfy chair with guilty pleasure.
Surely it is shameful to like my own company so much.
A bit of computer, piano, think about a new music project.
Throw Porridge's plastic squeaky chicken leg across the room for her to retreive...
Wonder whether Susan Boyle has won the talent show.
Porridge's neck is stapled together after her encounter with the French doberman, but the wound is clean, and the metal work is to come out next week!
A light melancholy settles over me, I put my feet up on a cushion and really start to enjoy myself.
If only depression could always be like this...