19.34. Football, tennis, meetings, chat. taxis, heat, almonds, silence.
Worra a day this has been, it was a heavy show I got so angry about factory farming. We are, if we’re not careful, going to turn into the dustbin of Europe. It’s as if the Great British public are letting the fat cats poop on us from a very great height.
It is not their God given right to mystify us, confuse us, screw us and then let us pick up the pieces.
If factory farming is allowed to happen on our tiny, little Island we will only have ourselves to blame.
B is working on her music, I am about to collapse in front of the telly box.
Get into a cool bed then up early for the hairdresser.
The old git’s home on Sunday morning. The last three weeks have been long without him.
I hope he will be happy to be with his two females. When you’re on the road there’s no responsibility – only to yourselves – he’s got to come back to reality. I will try and make his reality as pleasant as possible but I can’t guarantee that there won’t be spills and thrills.
That’s it for now, I need a glass of cool water and mindless tv.