Little Pleasures


I rise snuffling and hacking from my sickbed only long enough to report the arrival of my newest granddaughter, who has feet like plates of meat and hands like Rachmaninov but is otherwise tiny, elfin and good enough to eat. I’d forgotten how easy it is to spend hours just watching a newborn baby shuffle through its deck of facial expressions. Now I remember why the dustballs gathered and the dishes piled up in the sink, and I’m glad to say my daughter doing exactly as I did.

Back at base camp my computer is sicker than I am, stricken by a faux virus that pops up a porn photo on my screen when I try to surf. I’m blogging from Mr F’s computer while he’s out at the DIY Superstore doing guy stuff. What kind of degenerates put that stuff out there? Who sits at home and thinks, ‘Hey, I know, I’ll design a bug that really inconveniences people and forces them to look at unnaturally large tits.’

Welcome into a sick old world, Ulla.


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