The Weasel is moving from Weasel Hall to somewhere a bit bigger. Moving is not something I enjoy, but we have run out of space. No, I don't have a cupboard full of waffle makers that I never use, but I have accumulated an industrial quantity of wires and boxes associated with internet providers, and my collection of shrunken heads and Babylonian Nose Flutes must be kept in climate controlled conditions. Also, my various musical management activities are gaining momentum and I have to concentrate on them, including, if I am very lucky, a visit to Nashville.
Yesterday, I was told I was likely to live a little longer. I had to visit a specialist in Edinburgh who sent me away with a flea in my ear over a minor but suspicious skin colouring that had got me pondering the meaning of life and making mental notes to tell Mrs Weasel where the stop tap was.
Ageing is largely in the mind, but at 55, my body handles more like a Ford Anglia than a Lamborgini Murcielago.
I could carry on ranting about the Government, but frankly, I have run out of things to say. I could give a running commentary about our move, but that would not exactly make for riveting narrative. I will re-emerge in times of national emergency/surprise but, for the time being, this blog is taking a break. Au Revoir and thank you for reading.