The back-from-dad's place update

A thumb-sized plastic Squall Leonhart is a surprisingly comforting thing to have in one’s pocket, even if his gunblade is broken.

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My father is still impossible to talk to.

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Captain Carrot and Lloyd Irving are possibly very nearly the same person. I must research this.

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My faithful DS is dead. It died of internal bleeding, and I am much annoyed about this. I’m saving up for a new one.

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My aunt and uncle and cousins came through big time with regards to presents. SERGEANT PEPPER’S!

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I’ve put on weight. It’s probably all those duck legs. For some reason it all seems to go to my belly, nowhere else. Some of you are probably making pregnancy jokes on reading this. All I can say is, if it is pregnancy, we are probably about to witness the birth of a new religion. Someone should phone the Archbishop of Canterbury.

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I hate politics. Hate hate hate.

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Ian is still a prat. Why does he have to act like he’s lord of the manor all the time? AAARGH!

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Tomorrow I have another appointment about getting psychiatric help. It looks like we are actually getting somewhere soonish.

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All in all, things could be worse.