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[personal profile] desperance
...Or, I could just sit here numbly staring at things, dead on the inside. Jetlag has me in its snare; even the pub is too far to walk, even signing sheets is too hard to do.

Also, the steroid that keeps me breathing is unobtainable. There has been a manufacturing problem, apparently, and a man less jetlaggy than I tried seven different chemists and there was none to be had. Sniffle.

In better news, I may be ruined but my favourite casserole dish is not. There was an Incident of Burning - nay, of Severe Burning - and I thought I had finally destroyed it, after the better part of thirty years. But no: a night in a vinegar bath and a healthy scrub with a brillo pad, and lo. It's as good as new, save for a few previous chips in the enamel. (It's heavy. It gets dropped.) Yay Le Creuset: the name is practically a lifetime guarantee in and of itself. I'd leave the thing to my heirs and graces, only Karen doesn't cook and I don't think the Lit & Phil would want it.

I shall now return to my previous programme of sitting and staring. Oy.

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