Keith’s coming over for lunch today. I plan tacos (meat and veggie options) and shirazi salad. He offered to cook but I thought I’d do it. We’ll be talking housing plans.
Buster is wandering in and out of my room like he is hearing rats in the walls. Burnaby is having a HELLA BIG YEAR for rats, and big rats too. C’mon down coyotes.
Loooook! what someone did to the lawn in Bath. For the Coronation you know. I am planning on live-blogging King Chuckles’ Magic Grease Anointment Do. I have no idea why, probably because I didn’t get to see the most recent Coronation and because I’m hoping –– like I rarely hope for anything –– that this is the last one that ever happens. The idea that Camilla, one of the cruellest, most grasping and graceless women to ever wear a racist pin to meet her new daughter in law in, (yup, she wore a family heirloom Negrohead pin to meet Meghan, if you can credit it) will be (deep nauseated breath) ‘my queen’ is EVEN WORSE than Carolus Wrecks being (deep nauseated breath) ‘my king’.
I wrote this for him this morning:
Famous for lying ’bout love and sex
Carolus Wrecks, Carolus Wrecks
Less famous than his gorgeous ex
Carolus Wrecks, Carolus Wrecks
They hand him his pen, they hand him his specs
Carolus Wrecks, Carolus Wrecks
The laughing stock of his ‘subjects’
Carolus Wrecks, Carolus Wrecks
