Mothering Sunday

The daffies are coming out up here at last. All along the canal. And the dafties are oot too - in their lycra, wearing down their joints. As they'll find oot, when it's too late. Talking of joints... no, no, I'll stop there.
What about all this blip rumour demise thing that's going on though? All the fekking investment I've made in tapping out my goings on. All the comments dutifully replied to. It could all just be swept away. Strewth. It's like the sun becomes a red giant and gobbles up the earth. And everyone on it. All the History Channel Eastern Front documentaries! Charles Darwin's first copy of the Origin of Species, Charlie Hebdo's cartoons, HMS Victory, ski resorts, Thingmy Putin. Jeesus. It's unthinkable. Well, it's possible to thunk it so that's not quite true. Tell you what though, until it's confirmed, I'm not going to be wasting time taking excellent photos. Nooo! And I might just write guff too. Unless the bastards promise it'll be put in a tube and saved forever and sent off to Uranus. *obvious ending fnarrr*