Custard

April raining. Good for the garden, good for my soil.

Called off work today, gladly accepted because I have to spend most of Saturday at a training for the new computer charting system. That there has to be a six hour class says everything about how intuitive it will (not) be. In a few minutes, I will catch up on some of the cleaning I've so badly neglected.

Cats chasing madly this morning, tag. No bushy tails, no hissing or growling, so we suppose it to be play. Eleanor occasionally simply hops over Moby, and she is much faster. His surprize attacks after careful stalking always seem to startle her. This may be part of the game as well. There is certainly an underlying threat of, well, threat. But no one seems to be hurt, or unduly annoyed. It seems to be good exercise, heartily indulged.

A quote for the day, then off to de-dust and de-clutter.

'We are here to see Dr Whiteface,' said Vetinari. 'I require you to let us in with the minimum of mirth.'

The door snapped back. There was some hurried whispering and a clanking noise, and one half of the double doors opened a little way, just enough for people to walk through in single file. Moist stepped forward, but Vetinari put a restraining hand on his shoulder and pointed up with his stick.

'This is the Fools' Guild,' he said. 'Expect... fun.'

There was a bucket balanced on the door. He sighed and gave it a push with his stick. There was a thud and a splash from the other side.

'I don't know why they persist in this, I really don't,' he said, sweeping through. 'It's not funny and it could hurt someone. Mind the custard.' There was a groan from the dark behind the door.

-Making Money, Terry Pratchett.