Bingo wings, Stilly.

I've been to pool class and I'm tired and a bit wobbly; apparently, this is the new normal, at least for now.

The mouldy bathroom really is urgent, and well beyond my limited skill with tools, so I contacted one of Stratford's main building firms for a quote. Their website said I would have to wait for an estimator, but within a few hours an email rolled in proposing a visit next Thursday. I accepted with enthusiasm.

If I tried to tackle that job on my own, I would make a mess and probably hurt myself. Even the destruction phase requires tools I don't have and don't know how to use, not to speak of the mould itself, a major threat to asthmatic ol' me. Classic example of a task for a properly equipped master carpenter.

Damp spots have been appearing on the bedroom rug lately, and I suspect Watson (who spends his days on the bed) although I have not noticed so much as a whiff of cat pee. This cannot continue, however, so I rolled up the rug and told the cat, "This is why we can't have nice things." He just showed me his belly and purred.

Today is Epiphany, or Little Christmas, and neighbour Neil across the street is taking the tastefully restrained festive lights off his roof. I bet the people on the corner will leave the gigantic inflatable (but only half-inflated) Santa on their lawn until at least half-way through Lent.