The painters came. The painters cut down my ten year old wysteria and have sawed off the trunks of the rose laurel trees to a height of eight inches. They have painted over the bits they were supposed to cement first. They have left six piles of broken branches, cigarette butts (that only makes me mad because I am an ex-smoker). They had to borrow my ladder and a screwdriver and I'm thinking I should have listened to my instincts when I first met them.
I utterly cannot draw at the moment. This one I doodled off after two hours of messing around and oh, we have found the cause of the spectacular snakeskin I grow in the summer. I am allergic to chlorine. Super.
I just read "Ghost" by Robert Harris. A page turner based on a not too distant prime minister and his wife and a ghostwriter.
I have not played the guitar properly for days. What is this? Sunspots?
