Dear Diary,
Illness prevented the happy couple (namely my beauteous paramour and I) from attending yesterday evening's festivities. Alas, these hazy daze just fly by. I while away the hours writing out timelines of events for my degree in history. I have yet to order the set books. Which means I cannot begin my studies. Not just that, but the painters are in, so no boom-boom for Maxy. At least nothing that does not resemble an oral examination.
We're sitting in the sun, getting nothing much done, but still having some fun, down to our last one, lone, smokey icky-sticky thingy. Aye.
Haze fades, to make way for a brand new day, one more, and it's joyeous Freyasday, payday, and paying for books for A, A200. Stay On the Flex. I know I'm not.
Here's the text I sent excusing us from yesterday evening's festivities:
Jane is feeling under the weather, and I'm feeling none to clever,
hope you have a great soireé, with t'other musicians who play;
Have a great night, though Jane and I feel shite;
the party should still be good: we'd both be there if we could.
Maxwell.
