![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceThirteen minutes until I can have a drink. Sadly, I've been wanting one for hours.
Ordinarily, I'd go for a walk - it's a lovely spring afternoon out there - but it's Sunday: Karen'll most likely call when she wakes up, and that might be any minute, and what if she missed me, oh noes?
So I've been cleaning the kitchen while Tom Waits made the house sound occupied, but there's only so much cleaning I can do. And I have now topped up all my spices, and figured out what to do about dinner (spaghetti, since you ask, with bacon and garlic and chilli and cream, and scallops fried in butter and curry oil), and...
Well. There it is. Nine minutes.
Dunno why the empty glass is quite such a pang today. Maybe because it's an empty day, a non-working Sunday, and what else is there to do? Later I'm going to catch up on a couple of documentaries and maybe finish the night off with Barbarella (for yes, I am tidying my TV recordings also, which is largely to be confused with watching them), but this is [five minutes shy of] the time when I open a bottle of wine and sit at the computer and work. I might manage not sitting at the computer, but I don't think I can manage watching TV and drinking alone and unearned; and I really, really do want that drink.
So I shall post this and go downstairs, and make a palaver out of opening a bottle, and pour myself a glass of wine and read, perhaps; and if my conscience troubles me overmuch perhaps I'll come back up and work on the taxes a little, just to salve it.
And it's time, time, time...
Ordinarily, I'd go for a walk - it's a lovely spring afternoon out there - but it's Sunday: Karen'll most likely call when she wakes up, and that might be any minute, and what if she missed me, oh noes?
So I've been cleaning the kitchen while Tom Waits made the house sound occupied, but there's only so much cleaning I can do. And I have now topped up all my spices, and figured out what to do about dinner (spaghetti, since you ask, with bacon and garlic and chilli and cream, and scallops fried in butter and curry oil), and...
Well. There it is. Nine minutes.
Dunno why the empty glass is quite such a pang today. Maybe because it's an empty day, a non-working Sunday, and what else is there to do? Later I'm going to catch up on a couple of documentaries and maybe finish the night off with Barbarella (for yes, I am tidying my TV recordings also, which is largely to be confused with watching them), but this is [five minutes shy of] the time when I open a bottle of wine and sit at the computer and work. I might manage not sitting at the computer, but I don't think I can manage watching TV and drinking alone and unearned; and I really, really do want that drink.
So I shall post this and go downstairs, and make a palaver out of opening a bottle, and pour myself a glass of wine and read, perhaps; and if my conscience troubles me overmuch perhaps I'll come back up and work on the taxes a little, just to salve it.
And it's time, time, time...