A dark and oppressive cloud hangs over the House of Rats. It’s so palpable that it’s affecting my sleep, ensuring that I roll in to work tetchy, gloomy and gritty eyed.

I have also just taken thirty-five fucking minutes in Sainsbury’s choosing between two brands of whisky. That is in no way a good sign.

Last weekend, aside from the obvious joys of Decompression (pictorially represented below) we had a birth, a death and a horrendous break-up in our immediate circle.

RIP - Paul Lee Foxall – witty existentialist and fucking good dad.

So then, tears are quite frequent and I have some apprehension too, about this weekend coming…..

Am travelling 200 miles to stay from Friday to Monday in the home of a beautiful feathercut I have only met once under chemically induced circumstances (although for 18 hours – see circus party entry) and have not spoken to except via text to in the three weeks since. Tentative? Yes. A weekend is a long time.