Welcome to my perfumed garden

I've hardly slept all night - or, indeed the last several night actually despite the unaccustomed frantic activity. The house is still decidedly tip-py with two whole rooms inaccessible from piles of books/dvds/albums/pictures/rugs/furniture and etc. etc. I'm leaving for fluterbev 's at a quarter to three and I'm still sitting here, drinking coffee and more-or-less staring at the wall.

::is completely, utterly, wholly and completely shagged::

I really should get off my arse and do something. So very much to do. I should move myself, shouldn't I?

::stays glued to chair::

In housely-news, the new back door is draft-tight and water-tight and thoroughly practical and totally doing its job and looks like a coffin lid. I miss my old door with a Heathcliffe-like passion but it had to go - the guy was, quite literally, able to rip it off the wall with his bare hands - and Mr Chorley-Double-Glazing-Guy is no beefcake, but a silver-haired, ruddy-faced man in his sixties with a bit of a paunch. It was full of holes and rotten through and through - a child of four could've put a fist through it. I still miss it though.::sigh::

Anyway. The sun is out! O:! Maybe because Garett has arrived on our rain-swept shores? maybe the sun really does shine...? But no. Best not go there....

The terrible John-Stalker-like glare of the sun means I'm a prisoner in my own home even with the blind down I can't see a thing I'm typing. I might as well press on with that long, long list of stuff that needs must be done. I wish I had the energy to express some Bev-visit/Garett-mania squee but I'm sure it'll be there when it's needed.

::is very tired. Is old and on last legs. Has a cold-sore the size of Battersea Power Station. Needs more coffee::

I'm rambling, aren't I?