OK, sorry. I should have explained Cthulhu yesterday. It is a betentacled creation of the writer H.P. Lovecraft, a troubled product of the darker aspects of New England life. Tim introduced me to Lovecraft, so when the time came to write in his and Rachel's wedding guest book, I put that I hoped the foul dreamer would have no part in their marriage. Because nobody wants squamous and bactrian creatures from before the dawn of time rising from dead cities deep beneath the Pacific in the glaucous light of the gibbous moon when they're trying to iron shirts, watch a romantic comedy or defrost the freezer.
1. Drinking a mug of hot chocolate with my breakfast because it's raining.
2. We go out for early dinner, so the pizza place appears to be hosting nursery tea. A small, blond and chocolately boy stands on his chair to speak to the slightly older child at the next table: 'Hallo, little girl.'
3. I manage to balance on Katie's Swiss ball for the first time, which means my core stability is improving.
