Scribblings from the Mitchy Side

I've just found out that in their infinite wisdom *snarl* WAGN trains are plotting engineering works and there will be a bus replacement service between either Finsbury Park or Alexandra Palace and WGC on the Sunday I fly back from the States. At least, two websites have said that but I can find nothing in the Planned Services bulletin on the National Rail website. I'll ring tomorrow and double check.

However, on the off chance the information is correct, it means getting home is going to be a bitch. Is there ANY kind soul out there with a car who could meet me at Finsbury Park (I can get there by Tube, I believe) and give me a lift home? I'd be slobberingly grateful. I guesstimate I'll be in Finsbury Park for about 10.15pm Sunday 7th May. I know, I know - it's late on a Sunday night. But if you could, can you let me know asap? If it turns out the advance ticket booking info is wrong (and it has gotten confused before) I will be quite happy trundling back on the train. But it would be good to have an alternative to a two hour bus ride after an 8 hour flight and a 50 minute tube trip.

If all else fails, I can bite the bullet and park the damn car at the airport. It's only money. Who wants to be rich? :P

Any kind soul who steps into the breach gets to have goodies brought back from the States for them. Fancy that Region 1DVD? That book that won't be published here until next year? Say the word :)

So there I was this morning, doing my world famous impersonation of a hibernating dormouse, when a loud noise penetrated my dreams. Gradually my conscious took over and vaguely registered that it sounded like yelling. Specifically, a young child's yelling. I growled, prepared to roll over and then realised that it wasn't a child, it was the cat, yowling fit to be tied.

My sleep-riddled thought process promptly went along the lines of "OMG HE MUST BE HURT/DYING/IN DISTRESS/THERE'S A FIRE/BURGLAR/MYSTERIOUS MONSTERS IN THE FLAT!!!" so I stumbled out of bed and flung myself into the hall. Only to see his Furriness completely unhurt, with no sign of incipient danger, and giving me his "I'm cute and HUNGRRRRY!" look.

Possibly something in the expression on my face convinced him that this wasn't his best move ever. It was 6am. He wasn't due for feeding for another two hours, just the same as any other morning. We hadn't put the clocks back or forward, so there was no excuse. He just decided he was hungry and wanted feeding nowthatveryminuteorhe'ddiehonest!

Furry bastard.

He got fed five minutes before I left the house at 8.50am. On purpose. And he kept his furry butt well out of my way for the duration, too.

The rest of the day went downhill from there, really.

The only bright spot was managing to impress BullyGirl by producing 20 letters with no mistakes. I'll gloss over how many attempts it took me to produce the flawless documents to give to her, mind.