Back of the Loft

Tigger is in the back of the loft - the humanly unreachable part.

F's laptop has just thrown its toys out of the pram. A recent update appeared to slow things down so much that F decided maybe she ought to do a disk clean up and defrag, and uninstall the remote working stuff no longer required on her personal laptop since work finally provided one, and then the wheels fell off. 

Tigger decamped to the back of the loft - and won't come out.

The laptop has a green screen and a single remaining spinning wheel - like an upside down car wreck - and a warning that its 'preparing to....' and don't turn it off.

Fortunately we have a tablet that has never let us down, even if it does mean that F has to compose with one-finger typing. We can sit in the loft almost together and Tigger can dictate in muffled voice from the back corner.

We haven't had the most inspired or inspiring of week's. There seems to have been a sleep deficit. Tax deadline being 31 August here, and the accountant treating it like a target rather than a DEAD line didn't help. Notification (finally) on Thursday of a huge amount to pay by Tuesday, which needed to be transferred from a UK bank account (4 working days required according to said UK bank) and a bank holiday in UK in between, did nothing at all to lower anxiety levels.

The penalty for late payment is the equivalent of 3 months of the salary portion F gets paid in Greece. The accountant has had the paperwork (and monthly reminders) since April.

Tigger crawls deeper into the loft.

The weather is slightly cooler and today is even breezy - which is welcome relief.

F went and pulled weeds out of the garden, and scooped cat poop off the steps on the backyard retaining wall. It had been getting really, obscenely, smelly out the back; keep the back doors and windows closed type smelly. After that, and some long distance hosing of the wall from our aft balcony, she behaved as if remarkably recharged until the laptop refused to play.

Tigger sneaks to the loft door for a quick bite of a late lunch and rapidly retires to the dark recesses again.

Swimming seems to be out of the question; the sea is very rough and only the bravest or most stupid are bobbing around in it. 

Mr B rang. He's off to London for a social gathering of our sailing friends and then they are back to Hayling tomorrow for a special regatta to mark 100 years of HISC (Hayling Island Sailing Club).  It might have been better here if F hadn't known.