Well, that thirty five seconds of sun was worth the journey... I am no longer paper white, rather I have the tone of a ghost that's been on a son bed. I am a veritable vitamin d machine.
I am sorry to be so typically British, this blog reads like a weather report of the biblical flooding of the world. We do love to talk about the weather.
I ventured out last night to utterly miss some jazz and talk about the rain. Luckily my bank card didn't seem to be working so my partner in crime had to buy all my drinks. I always take the brighter view when faced with such issues.
Sarah and bridge have just left for work, it would appear that my annoyance at the weather doesn't make for an attractive quality in a house mate... They were running as they left, leaving a slight stench in their wake. Bridge, ever careful with money, has refused to buy a new pair of jeans, even though the pair that he currently wears and persistently forgets to wash, has developed more culture in its creases and folds than the country in which both jeans and owner reside.
I have been preparing for a gig, trying to remember songs and attempting to clean some clothes. The air is so damp that days pass and by shorts, shirts and pants still drip as if shedding lavender scented fears over the high albedo of their owner and sometimes inhabitant. My clothes and I are on the same page.
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