In which I prove that I sometimes cannot multitask when not being paid to do so and attempt to slice off the tip of one finger whilst simultaneously trying to chat to Debs, drink gin and chop spinach. A few days later I get another finger with the bread knife and H's kitchen does not improve with blood all over it.
(This is my index finger, without which I cannot do up my increasingly tight jeans, as it's the only one that can get the button to do what it's told. I need this finger and must stop trying to cut it off when distracted and carrying knives.)
In other depressing jeans-related news, I was wearing the freshly washed buggers today, doing some lunges in order to stretch them back into some semblance of acceptable tightness, as compared to what, frankly, is quite unacceptable at the moment, whilst also eating chocolate with my good hand, when they ripped. Again.
I moved. We have views. They don't quite make up for the jeans situation, but they're pretty good. Two bits of sea. Oriental and the other one. I have already pissed off the neighbours with my parking skills. Neighbours nil, Penelope one.