Nice.

Snazzy mate. Very, very snazzy. I suppose I should try sussing out some of this stuff myself at some stage. I haven’t worked out yet how to get my stupid phone’s predictive text to let me swear, let alone post to my blog.

I was flatting in this old farm house on the Otago Peninsula yonks back. The outside loo had old newspaper in it - it was all about the house 8-year-old Liz had out the back of her olds’ (and now her) palace, built to scale and with running water and power. For some reason this is linked in my head with the dismembered rabbits the cat would leave on the doorstep that you had to avoid as you’d stagger bleary eyed and barefoot to the loo of a morning.