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But even though life is good, there isn't anything of interest happening right now. Or maybe that's why life is good. Probably.
Yesterday was a real summer day, hot and dry, but still not too hot to keep both balcony doors and Lola's window open. And the nights are still so perfectly cool and still. I think there was a storm during the night; I vaguely remember being woken by thunder, but falling back asleep right away. The critters le me sleep till 6, bless them.
Apart from playing tennis yesterday -- from 11 - 12.30 and hence a very sweaty affair -- and making ratatouille salad with bacon-wrapped prawns for dinner, nothing even remotely noteworthy occurred.
Today shouldn't be much more exciting. Maybe I'll go running later. Not quite sure, though, since there'll be tennis from 4 - 6, but maybe it's going to rain... Decisions, decisions. I'll be playing with a colleague from the Hungarian Embassy. I think he's rather taken with me; I totally ignore that, though, because 1) he's married and 2) not my type. Besides he serves like a girl -- very awkward, because the serves are always in but so slow they're difficult to get. And he keeps saying that my backhand is lethal. *snorts* I'll be good, though, and not counter that compliment with "Yeah, you think so because you play like a girl"
And I'll have to do my nails today -- the turmeric I put on the prawns yesterday has left its traces, and the tennis calluses need to be taken care of.
God, I'm feeling lazy.
Can't even say it's the cats' fault, because they're being rather active.
I think I'll load the dishwasher and put some laundry into the washing machine, in order to have some minor accomplishment to look back on...
ETA:
Yes, I'm definitely better with cats than with men. Exhibit A -- taken from an entry I made exactly one year ago on 29 May 2010:
What is it with men, for heaven's sake? Or, more exactly, what is it with me always going for the -- apparently -- wrong ones? Of course one might argue that, if a man is 46, drop-dead gorgeous, clever and not an axe-murderer, but still single, something might be wrong.
Good thinking, my dear. And it only took you about eight months to get over him.
But now you *are* over him, and you've got three cats, so all's well isn't it?
Yesterday was a real summer day, hot and dry, but still not too hot to keep both balcony doors and Lola's window open. And the nights are still so perfectly cool and still. I think there was a storm during the night; I vaguely remember being woken by thunder, but falling back asleep right away. The critters le me sleep till 6, bless them.
Apart from playing tennis yesterday -- from 11 - 12.30 and hence a very sweaty affair -- and making ratatouille salad with bacon-wrapped prawns for dinner, nothing even remotely noteworthy occurred.
Today shouldn't be much more exciting. Maybe I'll go running later. Not quite sure, though, since there'll be tennis from 4 - 6, but maybe it's going to rain... Decisions, decisions. I'll be playing with a colleague from the Hungarian Embassy. I think he's rather taken with me; I totally ignore that, though, because 1) he's married and 2) not my type. Besides he serves like a girl -- very awkward, because the serves are always in but so slow they're difficult to get. And he keeps saying that my backhand is lethal. *snorts* I'll be good, though, and not counter that compliment with "Yeah, you think so because you play like a girl"
And I'll have to do my nails today -- the turmeric I put on the prawns yesterday has left its traces, and the tennis calluses need to be taken care of.
God, I'm feeling lazy.
Can't even say it's the cats' fault, because they're being rather active.
I think I'll load the dishwasher and put some laundry into the washing machine, in order to have some minor accomplishment to look back on...
ETA:
Yes, I'm definitely better with cats than with men. Exhibit A -- taken from an entry I made exactly one year ago on 29 May 2010:
What is it with men, for heaven's sake? Or, more exactly, what is it with me always going for the -- apparently -- wrong ones? Of course one might argue that, if a man is 46, drop-dead gorgeous, clever and not an axe-murderer, but still single, something might be wrong.
Good thinking, my dear. And it only took you about eight months to get over him.
But now you *are* over him, and you've got three cats, so all's well isn't it?
