Summer Phantoms!

If you're in striking distance of Newcastle, Phantoms at the Phil is on again, this Thursday.

If clicking through is too much to ask, it's 7.00pm at the Lit & Phil, the usual crew of Gail-Nina Anderson, Sean O'Brien and myself. Call 232 0192 to reserve a seat. Suggested donation of £3, for three new ghost stories and a glass or two of wine: can you resist? I think not...

Evil physiotherapist is evil

She has broken me. After lo, these many years. I actually tried to pull away from the pain today, rather than lying there and taking it like a man. Never done that before, never ever. *is ashamed*

Also, she is entirely convinced that all this damn pain is posture-related and in my own hands to repair, rather than hers. I have boring horrible exercises to do, every hour. Every hour!

I would go and do them now - I have to sit in a chair that doesn't twist and wriggle, like this one does - only, y'know. Cat in lap. Purring. We must exercise to a different horology; hours begin when Mac says so. (He is in my favour today: I saw him licking Barry this morning, rather than biting him. And Baz just lay there and let him. I am not regarding this as any kind of breakthrough, but nevertheless. Good boys...)

PS

It's, um, really hard to do exercises? When you're sitting in the proper chair, which happens to be out on the landing; and there's one cat on a bookshelf right in front of you, staring in fascination, and another on a bookshelf right behind you, clawing at you, catching the neck of your T-shirt as you twist...