[ England had been remarkably capable of handling himself quite well for the past week or so. Certainly he sulked by hiding under his blankets, but he did that with pride. Or at least a respectable-looking blanket. But on the 21st day at the fourteenth hour at thirty-three seconds, as he realised he had written nothing but the word SOCKS1 for the
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And it's not good weather. It's too bright. Much too blue.
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Besides, I said anybody could come over in a pinch, so that's all good and well.
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Sometimes I even go to the kitchen.
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... I think I forgot about them.
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Maybe.
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