Nothing much to say

It's one of those nights where I have nothing much to say:

I could talk about the fact that I need to wash the mat outside the kitchen door because the cat has left skid marks on it (actually, I'll do that now - short hot wash will get rid of them).

I could talk about how the cat was making a pillow fort on my reading chair today. That was really cute. 

The face of the boy who leaves skid marks on the kitchen mat.

I could talk about the fact that I'm made it to the gym three times this week. I feel virtuous. Nobody needs to see me gloat. 

I could relate how I didn't mind the last season of The Crown. A lot of critics are quite scathing of it. Living in Britain when all this was going on, they have a lot of the outside historical facts correct. I still remember being told about Diana's death by one of my downstairs neighbours, who was distraught. I took her in, gave her a cup of tea and turned on the telly. She was right. And yes, Dominic West is too handsome to play Charles (Josh O'Connor was about right) and Elizabeth Debicki is way too skinny. But I've committed to this series and I will see it through when the last part drops in December. 

I could talk about the Bruce Lehrmann defamation trial (his mother must be proud) but I did that yesterday. 

I could talk about how useless some courier companies can be, but it's late and I don't feel like getting angry. 

I could talk about the book I've just finished, but it wasn't that great. I'll talk more about Clementine Ford's I Don't when I've finished it. She's a remarkable writer. 

Instead, I'm going to find something on Netflix for the next half hour then go to bed. 

See, you can get a blog post out of nearly anything. 

Today's song: