Thursday 13th February 2025

Thursday. Each day the weather perks up, and there is clearly more light every morning and evening.

I spoke with my friend, Gary, and halfway though talking, I could see it was five and yet still light.

As if by magic.

And so by magic, the year presses on and my time for gainful employment grows ever shorter. 26 days left at the end of Thursday, and the realisation there isn't enough tome to get the tasks I have already done, or take on any new ones.

So it goes, so it goes.

We lay in now to six, then stumble around in a sleepy fug to get dressed, feed the cats ad be ready for work by seven, or having left the house.

Cats sleep on.

I can't go out, there are two deliveries coming: a rain jacket and the new PSB album.

Cast iron excuses.

Not much to report in truth. There is no apparent manager, so I just cruise through this last month at work, unbothered by additional tasks.

I have a fresh brew and find a new podcast to listen to.

The garden is still to show much new growth, though there are now seven, sorry, eight aconites in flower, though two have been pecked at my Chaffinches looking for sunflower seeds.

I sit with Scully through the afternoon, watching crap, but gentle TV, and following an ancient edition of Kojak during the ad breaks on a neighbouring channel. Telly was a great actor, and I think it captures the 70s NYC police station chic, or how I imagined it to be.

I make Moroccan spiced chickpeas and lentil stew for dinner. I give it an extra spicy kick, and it is splendid. Lentils for lunch and dinner is too much, apparently.

Check.

No football on the tellybox during the evening, so off to bed at ten past eight, and no reading, straight to sleep.