And so, I’m friends with my Dad. On Facebook and in real life. After I posted my post yesterday, he posted this on Facebook: It pays to be friends with your Dad, people. It means a lot. It means, amongst many other things, that any baby picture of you he decides to share will be of the non-embarrassing sort. You hope. I love you, Dad.…
Wherein I get fresh air and new perspectives, remember promises and maybe change my mind. Edinburgh – Glasgow, holiday o’clock. Sarge turns on all the lights in our bedroom to make sure I am actually awake. We have cupcakes for breakfast. They are neither red nor velvet. I put on striped socks, a museum t-shirt and a Mom-made sweater. We take a taxi to the train station and get there with time to spare. This time I actually booked ramp…
If you’ve been reading along, you’ll know about Coffeegate 2011. You’ll also know that I call my computer Hemingway. Turned out he did need a new keyboard. Today, I came home to an undead Hemingway, complete with new keyboard and his own white chocolate cookies. (Sarge says he has to share them with us, though.) Hello. What would you like to write today? …
