Mr Smith wakes me at the lark's yawn of dawn. "Come on, shake a log, seven is the new eight." Oh GO AWAY and take that rather sleepy looking bag of smelly fur with you. The dog looks like he has jet lag. He doesn't care for this clock changing thing any more than I, except he gets his dinner earlier. Mr Smith zealously did his summer daylight saving alterations last night so we wouldn't be tempted to sleep in. I have cooked him breakfast and am wondering how I can sneak back to bed with the newspaper without him noticing. The dog looks very keen on a morning of comfortable snoozing. We have an hour of catching up to do.
I was very excited in the night as I thought I was having hot flushes and, between you and me, I am really quite relishing the thought of no more monthly periods even if it does mean serious ugly knitting instead of sex. I was mistaken; it was just our central heating going wrong. Oh, boring. I'll have to get in a man, and have sex with him - gosh, hope not.
Went to a boat race party yesterday. It took us ages to get there to someone's freezing roof in Fulham/Hammersmith. It was snoringly boring and I was wondering if we should have gone to the riots instead. We weren't allowed to stand on the Feng Shui garden. Someone was having a laugh there - slatey stone henge and a bit of gravel. After several glasses of indifferent champagne my friend Wendy walked across it in her Jimmy Choos. I am Oxford faithful (past shags etc) and I was pleased they won. We left with Mr Smith in a mood because he was rooting for those men in pretty pale blue wellies and a greedy man with bad manners won the sweepstake (not him).
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