w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

Today's lyric:

"She sprinkles flowers in the dirt
That's when a thrill becomes a hurt,
I know I'll never see her face.
She walks away from my resting place."

Paul MacCartney: "That day is done"

Odd premise for a song, that - the cognisant observation of your own burial?

Anyway, I love the way Costello sings it.

Now. Of absolutely no comment-inspiring interest to you faithful few (nor, indeed, the hordes who come here looking to find out what noseeums look like) tomorrow will be mainly spent preparing the estate and grounds for a dinner party for Mrs.D. and her ex-colleagues. Upon whom I and Mrs.D's new boss will be waiting. Hmmm.

And for Sunday, Mrs.D's ex-future employers will be arriving to vacuum up whatever food is left in the house. (They've been angling to employ Mrs.D. for over two years now, but the lure of working in Letsby Avenue proved the stronger*)

Finally, Monday (weather permitting) we will be visiting Lord Montague's Beaulieu (more properly pronounced Bowlier) where I haven't been in many a year, with our ex-neighbours. It may be a sodden affair but wtf.

So - enjoy yours, whatever you get up to and despite the forecast.

* I've already said too much.