The watering can

I was going to title this post 'Anyone have Liza's address?' but then I thought, Liza never actually does anything, except the verbal equivalent of rolling her eyeballs, and anyway it was a watering can, not a bucket.

This had better be worth it, I hear you think. (But I don't care. It's all I got.)

My favourite recycling thing, favourite because even though you can't really do it in winter, it's one I thought up all by my ownsome, is to shove a watering can under the hot tap while you are waiting for it to get hot enough to do the washing up. And voila - water for watering. At least half a gallon. Genius. So, last bit of washing up before bed time, really had enough of the day, looking forward to a few pages of Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman, because Kit, to my annoyance, has made off with Skulduggery Pleasant: Dark Days, which he has already read and I have only just started, and as I lifted the nearly full watering can out of the sink, I discovered that it had a fu so jolly great split in the bottom.

One clean kitchen floor later (the kids had been screeving all day. Imagine the state of my black slate floor.), and this was no little up-side, and I was hideously wide awake. Luckily for my upcoming exam, scales have a way of calming me down, so those got a work-out, which was another upside. (Unluckily for my upcoming exam, thay are A major, E major, B natural minor, B harmonic minor and B melodic minor. The fingering is a bugger, and I have an awful feeling I am supposed to know them off by heart.)

Maybe I should have called this post 'Call me Pollyanna. Then shoot me.'