Good lord, it's March. I am not sure why I am surprised, it's often March this time of year, but still. March.
Fridays are now known as sleeping-off-methotrexate-nausea day. Catchy eh? It's not pleasant, and I sure as hell hope it's necessary.
Eilidh has found a piece of cooked pasta on the couch and made a pasta ball out of it. She recommends not eating it.
Iona would like the use of the laptop to write some poems.
Nathan is helping Warren with the dishes.
I am back off to bed.
