Dog in kitchen

... was an unexpected sms from CarbBoy this morning. And sure enough, when I dashed through from the office, there was a black French bulldog in the kitchen looking at CarbBoy’s breakfast. Happily, it understood English and responded appropriately to my faux-jolly “ok, time to go home now” and trotted off from whence it came (back to a neighbour’s, where it was a visitor).

Some work, some tidying, some ordering, some sewing (brought to an abrupt halt by the sewing machine developing a fault that I couldn’t be bothered to investigate).

Now, after an ER marathon with the kids (that’s childbirth and organ donation dealt with), I am regretting my earlier decision to snack on peanuts. Much as my taste buds may love them, it seems my gut no longer does.