Strange

It seemed like a strange sort of day but aren't they all, these days?

Popped across to Aldi, visited the market, met Mel and Sassie on the way back with their visitor Cron, up all the way from that London on a visit.

Listenened to an hour's programme about Bob Dylan in the evening - called Verbatim, it was all in his own words. Excellent stuff, some of it splendidly grouchy. No pontificating by pompous pundits, which all the programmes so far seem to have featured.
"There's something happening here, but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr Jones?"

Three weeks after my trip to Orkney, I found under a heap of papers a couple of postcards that I'd bought on the Hamnavoe along with my copy of the Orcadian (which I'm still studying). Also the wee packet of tissues I'd bought; I'd assumed that the kilted gent was just on the cover of the pack, but each of the tissues turns out to be printed with eight of his headless likenesses. Strange indeed.