No real news today. This week has gone by so fast. Forgot to mention the alleged fete I went to on Saturday. 4 stalls, 3 of them religious, one of them selling crap. Guess who was on the next bus home. Must remember to change into one of my dust rags in waiting t-shirts before feeding the birds because that's another work blouse in the bleach bucket. Tsk. they get so excited these days. I managed to coax one of the squeaky lorikeet babies down from the tree and it followed me around everywhere, the sweet thing. This time I stayed and made sure he wasn't taken by a cat like the poor fluffy currawong one on Monday. I only ducked inside to get more bread crusts for a second. I'm a bad mother. Good thing I'll never be a real one. Did I mention I hate cats? It's kinda nice though, when I'm not feeling well at all, to sit on the brand new back steps and have my favourites play and beg for food at my feet and sing to me. They're far more personable than that stupid budgie we rescued from a cat (that's the third budgie we've rescued from the neighbourhood felines, in case you were wondering).
Nothing much else happened last night. Flipped through a few magazines, half watched Buffy and Angel repeats: catatonic Buffy and more Pylea hijinks. This is where I really lost patience with Buffy, when she pulls her big cry baby act. I had a crap year too and I had to pull my socks up and get a promotion to pay the bills while I was feeling like crap with precious little help from anyone, so, in the words of Spike, get over it. A hero shouldn't be softer than me, that's just wrong. She needs more slapping. As for the Pylea escapades, those rocks are sure looking familiar J. And why couldn't they behead Fred? It would have saved me a lot of jaw grinding later.
Just walked past someone in the office who was wearing basically the same office ensemble, only she looks like she's just stepped from a catalogue, and I look like a bag lady, all rumpled and crumpled despite a good ironing and my hair, which I tear at with comb and brush every morning has again sent up stray strands all over the place to wave about my head, making me look like the lost Gorgon sister. Sigh. I swear they'll find the untidy gene one of these days. I used to blame my heroic commute for my shambolic state, but that excuse has gone by the wayside. I'm just one of those people. Shove me in Chanel and I'll still look like a ragamuffin.