Heading out to the Belfry this evening to finish my scribbles of the day and get some shut eye for the the scribbles of tomorrow and I get the fright of my life. Well, maybe not my life, but certainly of the evening - and that's topping a pretty intense episode of House. So I close and lock the door of the conservatory and I feel something cold, clammy and hopefully alive - or possibly undead - land on my big toe (a drawback of flip-flops). So I, big girl's blouse that I am, let out a yelp. Sort of a winded, hollow yelp, which is good because if it had volume it would have been a ninny-like shriek. And, of course, it is not the grasping hand of an undead corpse rising from our lawn but a toad. Quite a fat one at that, but in a rush as it leapt away sharpish. Once my heart crept back down my throat I decided that having a toad land on your toe in London was quite a cool thing. Not in a trend-setting way, of course, though I could see 'toad on your toe' become the name of an ultra-chic cocktail. Or maybe a shooter.
My goodness I'm talking rubbish.
And I've almost got used to the water. Twelve years of clean, fresh and pure Scottish water and almost used to London water and it's disgusting, nigh-undrinkable, overly-chlorinated, oestrogen rampant rubbish. I may need to leave sooner rather than later.