Earlybird pointed me in the direction of different types of snow and I have extended my earlier poem as a result:
It’s not coming home; it’s not coming home: football’s not coming home.
Gloom in the room when Russia won the right to host the 2018 World Cup; and mortification at what can only be described as a rout: two votes, and one of those was ours.
I baked a couple of cakes the other day. I only mention it because they were surprisingly edible, if you don’t mind the aftertaste.
I spent yesterday doing the dreaded housework; I had no choice: Tory Boy is coming home this weekend. It took me four hours to find his bed under the junk I had stored on it; then I had to put it all in Spud’s room. On Monday I’ll have to move it all back again. Why o why did I have children?
There’s a new poem on my other blog. It’s only two lines so why don’t you take a peek?