Hanging's too good for him (vol 17, ch 3)

There was a man on the radio this morning, and I swear I heard him say "when we operationalise this project." That got me out of bed. Shrieking and slavering, largely.

Also, this from a book I've been reading (and largely enjoying, hence discretion), the most extraordinarily mixed of metaphors:

"You've kept those wasps trapped in a jar for a thousand years, and now they want to re-paint the canvas without you in the picture."

Uh-huh. I don't blame the author (well, not much) - but where was the editor? Where?

In other news, I just went downstairs to verify the quotation, because I'm punctilious like that, and found Barry sitting neatly on the chopping-board, in close proximity to the sausages sizzling on the stove. Not wickedly about to steal one, as Mac might have been: rather expectantly, waiting for his sausage to be supplied him.

And! I have reshelved the whole of the living-room! That's 213 linear feet, thus far. Today we move into the dining-room. Which will be significantly less, alas: the dining-room had 13 walls at last count, all at weird angles to each other, and few of them long enough to take even a single shelving-unit. Still, we'll do what we can. I shall work on, though my pain. (I hurt everywhere, all the way through. Saw the doctor yesterday about internal pains; he supplied symptomatic medicines and took blood, to see what that could teach him. Otherwise I have flaring RSI - and have bought new keyboard to combat it, having given up trying to save old one, bloody cat, bloody bloody - and much muscle-ache and back pain from all this hauling heavy stuff to and fro. I was in the pub with a charming young man t'other week who simply refused to believe I was as old as I am; if he had access to my internal workings, he would have no doubts at all...)

Off to turn the sausages. Cook-cook.