Not the grapes of wrath; today I suffer from the pears of disappointment. Actual pears of disappointment, as compared to the small sighs I utter when contemplating my bottom some days.
A mushy pear. Possibly one of the most soul destroying experiences in life. And it looked fine, cunning little pear-shaped seductress of evil. They have powers of deception, do pears. Not too firm, not too soft, they suggest in their enticing and fruity way, and you get sucked in. But the mouthfeel is utter mush. Floury mush. And I think they've contaminated all the other fruit in the bowl because now everything tastes bad and I'm just going to have to eat a Tim Tam instead to get over it.
41 degrees on Saturday. Felt like the inside of a hair dryer, to quote the big brother. And I moved house. It's a temporary move as we look for a place that is neither infested with huntsmen spiders, nor below a herd of water buffalo preparing for their ballet debut at the Opera House. Or up a hill. And close to the beach. And the ferry. With a good kitchen. And decent bedrooms. And flow. Flow is just so important.