It’s dumping, and I’am writing indoors. Three writing assignments this week, seriously thinking I might go back to building, the stress man. I just got a face facts, I hate any kind of work, or routine. My Jamaican DNA with it’s work ethic completely striped by partying away in the 8Os, is slowly surfacing once again. Bummer dude, I was just getting into looking at catalogues and dreaming of that fitted kitchen. Slipped out from work like a naughty child, walked the hill did a couple of little runs, jumped some barbed wire fences. Chickens are wondering what the pecking hell is going on, and so am I. The daffodils were just about to blossom. Maybe do a little ice tomorrow.
