What a Dump

Though it isn't a dump. I know perfectly well that my own inner Dump is colouring an innocent place, innocent day.

It is only 6.45 and I have already put the second coat of seal on the table and started watering, because I have been bleakly wakeful since 5 o'clock, despite an eventful yesterday. I went into the city to protest on the Olympic torch route, thousands of people hobnobbing happily whether we were carrying red flags, orange or green, which restores my faith in civility within dissent. However the mayor was worried enough to change the route, so I heard from Stefan via cell-phone (he and John were watching on television, too much fun to work) that the runner had jogged smiling into a warehouse half an hour previously and not come out again.

So I gave it an hour then went to Bloomingdales.

Lynn, who had not been expecting to see the torch at all, ran into it twice.