March 4th, 2008

Carravaggio

ah...ah...ah...

Ack, I keep having Tudors flashbacks. Not good. Can't help it, the insomnia is back and the mind wanders (especially with no side trips to gossip pages to focus the mind while I wait for the dozen or so folks holding up my projects to pull their respective digits out. I can't even browse that scurrilous rag also known as The Times) and I shouldn't have binged on Sunday arvo, but I was knackered and the IQ was in desperate need of housekeeping (that's the poor man's Tivo that we've got out here).

Oh yeah, I'm officially, quantifiably, scientifically proven, allergic to housework and gardening. Yep, got my allergy test results back and I got top scores for dust, seeds, pollen, chemicals, and my own personal favourite: moggies (so no, I'm not putting it on when I burst into sneezies at the merest whiff of a cat hair, so there to all those who insisted I was indeed putting it on and then piled six of the creatures in my lap. To paraphrase Mr Socrates, the supercomputer: Get that cat out of here!). Alas, it's not like I can waive a doctor's note at the mess/chaos/installation (after Emin)/wildlife reserve etc, but I wish I could. At least it explains why I spend the weekend evenings feeling woozy.

Or why I end up on the couch watching more Tudors than is healthy or sane as the sun goes down.
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