Up the little wooden stairs to . . .

As I was going through my domestic morning routine I saw a red balloon floating by and dismissed it.
By the time I arrived at work my causes-for-concern over the offered contract had been received and a discussion was requested. When an appropriate moment arose I nipped into a small room for a private conversation where I was reassured that all post-pandemic contracts look like this, but that the real people behind it are kind and understanding, they simply need to protect themselves from work-shy Covid pretenders. Which I do understand. So I promised to sign and have it where it needed to be before the long weekend.
It was bright and sunny at lunchtime, visitors were being shown around and that meant I was completely alone. I picked up the stolen UGG boots that had remained under a desk since I last returned them in cowardice and strode off campus to the charity shop. I gave them to the volunteer who was so grateful, and then I popped into my flat to check my personal emails.
Hurrah! Cambridge had finally got off the pot and I was free to work for anyone else in the world except for them. So I picked up the printed paper contract from the other people, took it back to work where I signed it in ink, scanned it and have since emailed it to the agent. The deal is done and now I am looking in earnest for new accommodation in my future home town – Bedford.
After work I nipped into Tesco and when I emerged this happened.