Sundays mornings are a waste of time. Again.

Once again Sunday morning has come around, like some disgusting cold that rears its head every so often when one least expects it. Sundays always blindside me. The bastards. the sun has vanished only to be replaced by a horrendous blanket of cloud that has descended, quite obnoxiously, on our pleasant little burg. The city is awash with the filthy vermin who only appear every so often when the sun goes away. They wear fleece, and Crocs, and sunglasses without any sense of irony whatever. How I loathe them.

Fortuitous, then, that I am hiding away in my brick bunker, in front of my magical computerbox, crafting wonders with my clacking fingertips. I have work to be doing - how terrible. Three thousand is such an impenetrably large number of words.