The level crossing was down, so there was a queue of cars on the other side of the road. The FAGs had just whizzed past me, when some random woman sitting in her car rolled down the window, pinned me with a devastating glare, and said, “Are those trolleys going back?” My answer was a remarkably restrained, “I haven’t the faintest idea!” as I progressed on my way. But honestly! First, despite fuck annoyingness of flatbed-trolley-wielding miniature chavs, how bloody officious! And also, did she have the temerity to suppose I was actually connected in some way to those little hooligans? I mean, tchah! Not to say, flapdoodle!
But enough of such indignation. I joined the Brownies and a select coterie of Owls on a trip to the Imperial War Museum on Saturday, which was jolly fine, and the Brownies were quite remarkably sweet, and fantastically well-behaved, and I have to remind myself that Xanthe has a bursting-at-the-seams Owlery and will not require another. And, officially, I don’t like Brownies. I just got carried away. But yes, the museum was very good, and I think I must return one day without small children, the better to actually concentrate on the exhibitions (and, obviously, to go in the grown-up shop). Spent the evening with the counting for Old Maid going round in my head. And just writing that has put it back in for this morning’s entertainment. Dammit.
Sunday was a day full of nothingness. Had a lie-in. Went to Sainsbury’s but omitted to buy more milk, once again. Watched TV. For quite a long time.