smokingboot

Right. After much arsing around, I have fixed the problem of my post turning up on someone else's lj.

Hey! I fixed something!

Having re-read it, it really isn't worth the bother. But thanks to lots of you for advice etc, and letting me know when my last supposedly private post turned up public. I think I have that figured too.

Bloody hell, how hard can it be?

I record my last post here because eventually I know I will want to remember it. Today I am sick of the sight of the dratted thing. It's enough to put you off Devon.

Having had unpredictable weather for millenia, Britons are able to cope with anything the elements can throw at us except snow, excess rain, excess wind and sunlight.

The longest lasting farce outside the west end continues to play at railway stations up and down the country, as BR struggle to find new and interesting reasons for why the trains don't run. Of the yoof turning up for this celebration of

larians father's 60th, I was the first to arrive, delayed by a mere hour and a bit. Others found themselves missing connections and enjoying aeons stranded at various depots. The roads, it seems, were worse even than the rails as

larians, finding the roads too horrendous for further travel less than 40 miles south of Manchester, was forced to abandon the motorway and seek a hotel for the night. I believe they threw in a powercut for free.

There was no snow in Devon, but the endless rain more than made up for it. Snowdrops and crocuses are everywbere and the wind blows, and the house sits snugly lodged between Dartmoor and Exmoor. Logs were burning in the stove when I arrived, filling the front room with a delicious scent of woodsmoke. And people did eventually turn up, bringing pets with them; the house found itself with a collie overload, seven of them plus one dalmatian, one german shepherd cross and one lurcher. Food was good and plentiful, too plentiful perhaps; this is monday morning and I can't even consider breakfast.

I found myself enjoying the garden. It's about an acre and a half, with a small apple orchard and a wonderful vine, but what I enjoyed most of all was the view between two tall eucalyptus trees towards Dartmoor. Much as I love my job, I didn't want to come back to London right away. My train could have taken me on to Cornwall, to St Austell, where research awaits, and from there down to Truro and Penzance. Or I could just have wandered gormlessly on the hills, looking for old ghosts and strange beasts.

It was while ruminating on these choices that I noticed how my boots, valiant in the days of Nepal treks, were leaking somewhat. They've reached the grand age of 14, quite venerable for boots. Perhaps I could repair them, but they still have chunks bitten out of the foam above the ankles, remnants of a rodentine repast long ago on the Annapurnas. Time to replace them (the boots, not the mice) before my exploring zeal introduces me to the wonders of trench foot.

Now I am back in London. The adverts I did in December are being aired, and I suppose I should look at them to see if there is any useful footage; but I know I'm just going to wince. I have too much to think of. I never trust people who generalise by gender, but one particular myth that irritates me is this thing about women being better at multitasking than men. I just can't do it; one obsession after another, that's how I get things done, and my latest demented dream is dragging me out of the capital again...

[Amended to add] My new icon, courtesy of

caddyman is a perfect depiction of my current state. Thank you maestro!