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Saturday, 13 October 2012

I am not even going to ask



So it’s Saturday morning and I follow my usual routine, stagger out of bed around 10:00 (not a morning person, will not be a morning person, will stay up until 5:00am quite happily. Night time is good) and stagger down stairs. With much zombie groaning I fill my lovely pint mug with coffee (it has a warning on it, ordering people to a minimum safe distance. I love my mugs), I stagger into the living room, collapse on the sofa and fumble my kindle out of my dressing gown pocket.

One mug down and several chapters, it finally registers that there’s something poking me in the side. I look over and see a bassoon.

This is not an innuendo. For some reason there is a bassoon on my sofa. It could be an oboe I guess. What is the difference between an oboe and a bassoon anyway?

And a French horn on my coffee table. And a trombone on the floor. I think there’s a cased flute on the armchair

I reflected on this for a moment. Got up, refilled my coffee mug. After a few judicious sips I found the little writing pad on the fridge, took a sheet of paper and wrote a large “NO” on it and magnetised it to the fridge door. I took a sheet of paper from by the phone, pinned it on the phone board with another “No” written clearly and lastly, took a note bad from the drawer, wrote a very clear “HELL NO!” on it and left it on the coffee table. I then went back upstairs with my kindle and a third cup of coffee.

I don’t know how I’d deal with Beloved’s shenanigans without coffee.