It started out as a bit of a catch up, but by 4.35 this morning all eight episodes of True Detective had been watched, stored, logged and discussed.
I went to bed with images of Matthew McCooouhannhunhgy and Woooolie Harrolscombe running around in my mind. The fire burst into flame, flickered and died, was rebuilt and spluttered but still the old git and I sat glued to the telly box.
New next door people have had scaffolding put up so for the first time in 32 years I had to pull the curtains in the bedroom lest a scaffolder watched me and him sleep, or worse still get up and pad around in the nudybins.
It’s coming up to four o’clock in’t afternoon. Taken my godson to the pub and ate his chips. stupid diabetic woman. My mouth is as dry as unleavened crackers, polished the piano, sorted some cook books and vacuumed the bathroom and stairs.
I will have a soak in some epsom salts and essential oils. Then read. Then a bit of this and that and then an EARLY night.
The True Detectives have polaxed. me.