I was just cooking my porage this morning when Mrs TD announced that she needed a lift to a patchwork meeting so, as soon as I was dressed, had cleaned my teeth and delivered Herself, I went to the local food emporium for coffee and a Danish in lieu of breakfast. The pastry wasn’t notable, unlike the coffee which was tepid. I didn’t loiter and, instead, took to the hills for walk. While there, I was continually photobombed by a bunch of Japanese tourists looking for a Hi’lan’ coo; I didn’t see one, but the first extra suggests that she is aboot, or, at least, she was a few weeks ago. I hung about long enough to Blip some rowan berries for the second extra before beetling back to pick up Herself who decided that we should go to an alternative garden emporium for lunch. The soup was recommended; it was supposed to taste of mixed vegetables but, as happens so often these days, it tasted of salt – but at least the coffee was hot.
I’m afraid I’ve become a cantankerous old fart; as such, I’ve made a very early New Year resolution: the next time someone asks me how I am, I’m going to bloody well tell them. They won’t do it again.