…now that the laptop is back from the repair shop, and here with me in Canary Wharf, where the hotel bar has wi-fi access. As I have just confirmed. Whoop-di-doo!
Why is it that whenever life gets really interesting and blog-worthy, the time available to write about it shrinks to nearly nothing? I had this in China. And Barcelona, and Vienna, and Amsterdam, and Cologne, and all the rest of them.
It’s been an action-packed week. Mind you, I’d need a third secret-secret blog in order to write about some of its most action-packed moments. Please pause a moment, as you visualise my secretive faraway smile.
Many thanks to everyone who helped me celebrate the start of my forty-fifth year on Friday night. 48 hours later, and I’m still not entirely free of the after-effects. No pleasure without pain.
Speaking of which: as requested, K has bought me an exercise bike, in order to while away those midweek evenings in Nottingham. Totally cardiovascular! I shall have endorphins to spare!
Anyway, sliding quickly into predictability: I believe I’m up for another of those blog-award thingies.
[Checks the site, with its risqué URL that fell foul of the web censors at my new clients. Bright scarlet warning screen, to match my burning cheeks. That’ll learn me to ego-surf in snatched idle moments.]
Oh. Tant pis. Always the bridesmaid, etc. Petite‘s great, anyway. Yay for Petite. And thanks to the 25 nice people who voted Diva.
As I tap, I am surrounded by smug, braying, respectably inebriated business analysts and/or software consultants, whooping it up on expenses in London’s glamorous, thrusting, and terrifyingly soulless Canary Wharf. Misanthropy is rising. Bed is beckoning.
troubled diva 