I woke late today, had a game of Blood Bowl on somebody else’s birthday (and, as seems to be the tradition, wiped the opposing team off the pitch and romped to a win – nobody gets a Blood Bowl birthday present, it seems) and then went to help with the homeless down south of Seattle.
So that was a fairly typical Sunday. I failed to floss for the first time this year. Apart from that, resolutions seem to be according to plan.
In the absence of fresh Janet Dogwoman stories, I’ve been telling the girls stories about the four pigs (Daddy, Prancledance Fuffergump, Snowflake and Teapot) and after an ill-judged swimming lesson, the four pigs have floated down a canal to the locks in Ballard. I’m not sure how I’ll get them home again, but that’s the struggle of being an author, I suppose. Or I could be lazy and read the start of a Joe Abercrombie novel to the girls instead.