Granny is wearing a scowl and a hangover this morning. The scowl relates to the washing-up she is not doing at the moment. Why? She's writing this. (Diversion tactic.) Beloved cooked yesterday. And COOKED. And COOKED. Eight people sat down to dinner. The results are sitting in the kitchen. Overflowing it. Only hope to add to the hangover. (Or maybe not.)
Tomorrow she will go for SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. Possibly. See you then.
(Bugger it: she can't even size things properly. It's ALL bigger. Including her bum. It was a GOOD dinner.)
She ate the meal. The script is eating her..
Bigger and BIGGER.
PS. Granny has just discovered the perfect answer for always to the complaints of the clear-thinking scientist - her Beloved - who else - that she is muddled or confused. In future she will just quote Robert Frost about whose notebooks she was have just been reading this afternoon.
I am not confused. I am just well-mixed...
(Unlike this text. Script still in charge of it, of her, no matter how she tries to tame it. Her hangover maybe reached this page. Weird.)