I had great plans for a really useful post today. Oh, yes.
Then Beuno burnt his fingers on the stove last night, we spent eleventy million hours in A&E waiting for a couple of bandages, everyone woke up *dramatically* late for school this morning…
And I celebrated by chopping off the top of my finger while washing up an empty can of tuna.
Oh, no, apparently I DIDN’T chop off the top of my finger – according to Catrin, ‘it’s just a little slice’ – but I can tell you that even ‘just a little slice’ is far more of my finger than I’m usually willing to part with.
Now I’m sitting here typing this mostly with my left hand and my nose, and the dog’s staring at me with an unsettlingly hungry look in his eyes.
What *were* we thinking, bringing wolves indoors?
The last thing my daughter Angharad said before she left was an eerily unsympathetic ‘Let’s hope you’re still here when we get back.’
My own children clearly prefer the WOLF to ME.
I feel wildly under-appreciated.
Like a limping antelope.
Right then, Ted. I’m going to sit here and bleed for a while.
While I do that, if you could round up any stuck, frustrated intermediate Welsh learners you know and point them at Beca’s utterly brilliant ‘break through the plateau’ stuff at:
…then that would be wonderful.
I know, I don’t usually say things like ‘utterly brilliant’ about any of our stuff – but I’m getting light-headed from loss of blood, and all my natural reticence is, um, bleeding away, and any second now I’ll be dancing through the streets like Buddy the Elf, singing ‘I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding, and I don’t care who knows!’…
[Normal service may be resumed tomorrow. Wolf permitting.]