Full Moon
Nothing really. YP dismal. Michael Brown was fretting about the New Years Honours list this afternoon. Apparently none of the recipients this year could be found in our files. I could not be bothered looking at the list, embargoed as yet.
Ally and I went to Morrison's in the Lada. I felt lousy all day. Headache. Thick phlegm. Bought the usual party things. My aches and pains didn't help my temper, but the peasants jostling for fish fingers and toilet rolls reaffirmed my belief in the sanctity of mankind and I emerged from the supermarket beaming , and humming a Beethoven sonata. Bumped into Catherine and David Alderson.
Made smoked mackerel pâté, profiteroles, &c. Watched Top of the Pops. To bed late. Exhausted.
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