A trip to Claridgeland to ruffle the soul

So, a good night’s sleep really does help, who’d have thought? Much of the day spent on the make-work tasks of editing photos and doing photo albums, plus cataloguing the football memorabilia I will be selling some time soon. Amazing how much time it all takes.
 
Highlight of the day was a WhatsApp call with my friend Mark in London. I have at least partially forgiven him for having agreed a “promesse de vente” on the house in the Drôme. Partially. As always, a wide-ranging conversation – he seems to be happy to be back in London, having come to the conclusion that country life wasn’t for them. As I am getting itchy feet, I am not sure I fully understand, but whaddyagonnado?
 
More work in the p.m. while Mrs. Ottawacker was doing a day-long online course to maintain her credentials. My absolutely crucial role in this event was to stop the cats – especially Tui – from banging on her door in a vain attempt to gain entrance. They’re both sneaky little buggers. Here she is trying to burrow in from Ottawacker Jr.'s room.
 
Evening, once she had finished, we had dinner and then drove Ottawacker Jr. to Winterwood Park for his Wednesday soccer. It’s nestled in the heart of Claridgeland – the community that those sheisters built on a marsh and then denied responsibility for it. The lovely residents had managed to convince the city that it would be a good idea to put no parking signs up both sides of all the streets. I mean, the last thing any neighbourhood wants is the sound of children playing happily on a municipally funded soccer field. Ah, Ottawa, never change.