Home again, having explored the outer limits of pressure washer/birthday party interactions and toilet bowl/garden shed mechanical interfacing. Yes, I’m being deliberately obscure in case somebody making Scrapheap reads this. You never know. Anyway, it was fun, mostly. It was also, mostly, very wet. Ugh.

Back in Glasgow, I find I have no polling card, no insurance certificate for my car (thanks, Direct Line), no itemisation on my rather large and eminently claimable mobile phone bill, and – critically – no milk. This last is particularly vexing, since I’ve been looking forward to a decent cup of tea for fully two weeks now. Every new cup/mug/plastic beaker has brought a flutter of renewed hope, only for my aspirations to be rent asunder upon first sight of the inevitable layer of scum. And now, finally at home in a soft water area and with tea leaves more substantial than floor sweepings, I of course have no milk.

I’d find it all rather depressing, save that it puts me in exactly the appropriate mood for the forthcoming Hitch-Hikers’ movie.

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