Thursday 8th March 2018

International Women's Day.

All other 364 days are men's days, you Trumpflakes.

I can now say with some certainty that what I was suffering with on Wednesday was an allergy attack. I was woken up just before four, and had the usual blocked tubes and sinuses. Nothing was going to shot it, as long as I lay in bed And yet within minutes of getting up, I could breathe again. No idea what it was that triggered the attack, or if the past week has been a prolonged allergy attack, or a long slow flue recovery. Or both.

I lay in bed with Scully snoring at my side, she is happy with her lot in life. At some point after 5, birds began to sing, and dawn crept over the land.

Time to get up. And yet, there were signs I was feeling better. Just a little. A soupcon of better.

Jools made coffee, fed the cats. And then i put the bins out, and by the power of Greyskull was ready for work at eight for the first meeting of the day. The weekly moan-a-thon.

Work is a battle to stay afloat of the mail box. It is something I have been dealing with, and either I am getting worse at it or there are more mails now. It is never ending. And people seem to be angry. All the time. What will it take to make these people take a chill pill?

The day passes, and just before four, I find myself going for a short walk to look for the double snowdrop I saw the day before, and to snap it with my macro.

Neighbours find me laying across the track, in mud, talking to myself. There's a rare snowdrop I hear myself say. Look, it's a double! Oh yes, they say, and walk by.

I go home to make a brew and think of dinner. Jacket spuds is all there is, so I pop them in the oven half an hour later than they should. Anyway, where has the day gone?

As we eat, Arsenal are playing AC Milan, and clearly having a whelks chance in a supernova, Arse are 2-0 up at half time and hold on easily to keep it to that by the end of the game. What the actual heck.

But that is another day down, Friday tomorrow, and then the weekend. Phew.