I haven't given up on my daily sketchbook thing. Not entirely, anyway.
Charlotte is going through a real sewing phase. It's lucky I'm one of those sensitive modern males comfortable discussing the merits of an empire line as opposed to an A-line, or the perils of careless overlocking, because that's all we talk about.
It's overtaken her last obsession for pukka-cooking - I think our trip to Jamie Oliver's shop Recipease in Clapham Juction freaked her out a bit- so now we're back to lots of Lloyd Grossman pasta dinners.
On these two days there was an acute blizzard localised around me, hence: white-out.
Matt says the new Stewart Lee programme is "a bit smug". Apparently the viewing figures started off at something-pitiful and throughout the programme they just fall off by the minute. For some reason though I've long proclaimed myself his biggest fan and have convinced myself of his brilliance so well that if he was just reading out the phone book I'd tell myself I loved it and then watch it for a second time on iPlayer. Perhaps even a third, in case I missed any of the area codes.
This weekend we went to the Laugharne Weekend in Carmarthenshire (that's in Wales). It's a literary festival in Laugharne (population: about twelve) with some really great names on the bill, a fair few of whom actually turned up. We watched Louis De Bernieres practice for his grade 3 on the ukelele, DBC Pierre stumble between the three pubs and Howard Marks swear at a PowerPoint presentation. We didn't watch Irvine Welsh, Mark Steel or Rhys Ifans but didn't want to anyway. The whole festival is so laid back it's practically lying down, too drunk to stand. We had special wrist bands but it seemed like any old friendship bracelet would get you in to most of the shows. Still, we were glad for that extra plastic band of warmth in the nights- we were camping and it was bloody freezing.
And then a relaxing six hour drive back with a broken radio. It was fun though.