w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

Today's lyric:
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"I don't care how much money I got to spend
I won't find my way home again
Oh the lonely days are gone - I'll be right home
My baby, she wrote me a letter."

Joe Cocker: "The Letter"
From the album: "Mad dogs and Englishmen"

The Waste Of Oxygen that has been our 'guest' these last several weeks is finally going home today.

There will be rejoicing.

When Number One Son returned from Kernowland, he asked if a mate could stay a while until he got a job and flat. As a chef, there'd be no problem getting work?

Having spent one "exhausting" day distributing his cv, he sat back (literally) and waited for the job offers to flood in.

Well, sunshine, it don't happen like that round this neck of the woods.

Suffish to say that even when he finally landed something - as a hospital worker, which is about as far removed from cheffing as I'd guess it's likely to get? - the expected flat failed to drop in his lap, so he decided to book a one way ticket back home.

If he doesn't return within 12 months to collect the ski- and mountain-boards, I'm keeping the selling price in lieu of rent.

Admittedly he hasn't cost us very much. We said at the outset, he'd have to fend for himself food-wise (though lord knows what he's lived on - even veggies have to eat something).

And hot water and soap haven't been major players in his day-to-day existence either.

But when NOS invited him to the pub for his last night here, he declined, preferring to play on-line p0ker in the kitchen. And when NOS joined him for a game later, he didn't even say cheerio and thanks for putting him up. So he's fcuked it for anyone else who needs a room at the inn.

Now a bottle of red and a note would be a nice surprise when I get home tonight, but I get this feeling I may just have to pop out to the offie, or I may die of thirst...