I know I normally disappear about June or July and pop back up again in September or October.
This year was a bit different. The summer was rubbish, but then you knew that already.
We’ve moved again. Had to. Well, I say ‘again’, but it’s only ‘again’ for me. The hubster is swearing on any and everyone’s life that he’s never ever, ever (with extra ever) going to move again. It was a long and drawn-out process and one which was bereft of wifi.
Modern savagery, right?
How did we survive?!
I don’t know, but the trauma will no doubt last for a while. Just joking. But it was a nuisance.
I’ll just check my bank ba– I can’t.
No time to go food shopping, I’ll just do it onli– dang.
Ooh, I need to email Bob abou- Gahhhhhhh!
#FirstWorldProblems, as they say.
Anyway, we’re here now. And I’m able to talk to you again. I’m really glad about that. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed talking to you.
Okay, at you then.
Blame the jet-speed brain again. That’s how eight months have gone by so fast. Or so slowly. I don’t really know which it is. Another weird thing about being a vampire – our (is there an ‘our‘, or is it just a ‘my‘? I don’t know…) sense of timing varies between brilliant or non-existent.
And when I say ‘varies‘ what I actually mean is – it’s one thing or the other, baby. No in-betweens for this puppy.
(Did I ever mention that my favourite clock runs anticlockwise? It’s so much easier to tell the time by it…)
NASA could set the clocks on the Space Station by us/me.
I do everything now in a minute.
Mind you, that second one’s more a Welsh thing than a vampire thing.
Historically, it could have been a vampire that named The Hundred Years’ War (116 years). Or The Thousand Days’ War (1130 days). Or The Thirty Days War (304 days)…
But not The Eighty Years’ War – that one actually did last eighty years.
I was walking back home with the hubster today after a little trot into town. I confused him. I often do. I mentioned something about a lady in a Burberry scarf walking on the other side of the street. She looked so smart.
Then about ten foot-dragging minutes later, with much reflection and cogitation on my part, I wondered aloud whether our dog was alright on her own (oh yes! That’s another bit of news – we have a little rescue dog now).
Did I say ten minutes?
Apparently it was less than a few seconds. The hubster was puzzled as to why I was so concerned whether Scarf Lady would need to be let out for a poo.
Til next time. Promise not to leave it eight months.
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