My cunning plan, over the last week or so between jobs, was to do nothing. Have no achievements, leave no mark, just read a bit, beer a bit, sleep a lot. And that would be it.

The beer a bit has been done, but not as much as hoped; ditto for the read a bit. The sleep a lot, however, failed. Miserably. For there have been lots of little things needing done. A little digging, a little other garden stuff, a little phone-consultation-with-revenoo¹, a fair bit of shopping², a few family things. Most of which were not on my plan until the actual happening of them.

But today is my last day of my time off, so the plan is this:

• Probably an informal visit to the new workplace, to find out how to get in before customers and where to park.
• More conversation with revenoo. Must remember to not have any throwable objects within reach for this…
• Finalise mysterious shopping expedition.
• Read Whittler’s latest missive.
• Then boo-hoo back to work in the evening.

Dammit. Time off always seems to fly by. And it means that it must be time for the nervousness to return. Joy of joys.

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¹ – With the promise of more to follow, oh goodie.

² – Some of which was the dull and boring ‘my clothes are falling to bits and need replacing’, while a much bigger chunk was of the variety which blokes quite like, and results in much time around the Boucher Road. More on that story later, I’m sure.