I really shoulda stayed home. Preferably in bed.

My shoulder hates me, and my hands despise me. Who was the clown who said that sharp knives are safer? I've been quoting that for decades. And bleeding for it. *surveys his rueful finger*

And the meeting I really had to come in for has been postponed, as has the loaf that I was kneading before I cut my finger; and what with one thing and another I didn't get into town till after midday, and there is a man at my table in the Silence Room who doesn't need to be there, for he is not using my power supply, but he is taking calls on his sodding mobile phone; and there are builders banging on the roof, and and and.

I nearly did decide to stay at home today. Now I really wish I had. But actually going home would be foolish, when I'm meeting people in town anyway after work. So I shall just sit here and hurt and sulk and mutter on the internets in my usual charming fashion. It's a wonder I have any friends at all.

In other news not obviously related:

I suspect it will always be weird, walking into the library to find among the new books a biography of a man I used to know.

What's doubly weird is to realise that he's been dead for twenty years. We were effectively the same generation, and he's been gone long enough for a whole nother generation to grow up and be the age I was when we met.

And he is pleasingly unforgotten, people are still writing books about him, and even so.

Upwhinge*

Now the builders have started in with alternate masonry drills and hammering, Just The Other Side of This Wall. There is evidently a reason why the notice warning of noise was repeated on the Silence Room door. I thought that was just amusing whimsy/thoughtfulness before, but no. It's full-blown irony, my joy.


*This is kinda like an update you don't want to hear, and kinda like levelling-up in my whingeing.

Well, that was odd

So I cut my finger this morning, as hitherto reported. And I washed it and neosporin'd it and plastered it up and went to town and wrote all afternoon (grumblingly, as hitherto reported) and went to the pub eventually and met Mark and Helen and drank beer and went to Chinatown and ate crab and squid and lamb and soup and duck and pork and drank more beer and Chinese tea and walked home.

And on the way home, best part of twelve hours after the original offending incident? The finger started spurting blood again. I didn't knock it or anything, it just went gush. Um, what's the why of that? Does tea raise the blood pressure, or should I blame the food? Or the alcohol? Or the exercise?