The band is running fifty minutes late for a last-minute rehearsal, thank God. I am desperately trying to sober up for when father returns with many a musician in tow. I’m hoping it’s cancelled, but just incase it isn’t, I have done all the housework, made a pot of coffee, and am chilling the flex out with Ronulus in the wood shed.
Tomorrow may bring a chance passing with an eminent Geoscientist from Scotland. I am enthralled to meet her, if only briefly, as such a staggering intellect would surely mean much reverence on my part. In any case, a few drinks, a few laughs, and getting to know one another a little bit better is perhaps on the agenda. Jolly good. It’ll make a change from father’s illiberal perspective.Cold Comfort Farm does not begin to describe it, more like Wuthering Heights. Gotta go. They’re here.
Max.
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