Oh boy, I'm glad I am not preaching this Sunday

It's been a long, hard, tiring week.

Today after burying the one guinea-pig that we found, covering the tiny body with (used) coffee-grounds and pepper to try to prevent any digging-up, we hied us away to the book group. This month's book was "Hopscotch" by Julio Cortazar, and NOBODY had got on with it. It's a modular novel dating from the 1960s which has two alternative orders in which to read the chapters. Not that I bothered.

After that I needed to stay in town to catch a bus to my next appointment, so Mrs Davey and I refuelled at a pasta bar in town, cheap, hot and totally carbs.

Then off to catch the No. 15 to Villenave for the Conseil d'Administration of the Maison de la Bible, chez my good friend, Marc. We talked happily and freely about the bookshop and left just before 4. After a somewhat convoluted journey I got home just before 5 to find my grieving girls.

Pizza for tea. With salad, though. And fruit afterwards. We have bananas to finish up.

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