Liadnan

I thought I'd finally share another one with you.

This is a photo taken on the openhouse weekend. In the course of finding out just how long the queue to go up 33 St Mary Axe (the Gherkin) was, I walked all the way around the block, passing on the way the City office of the National Bank of Greece. This notice was fixed to the main door. Whenever I think about it my mind boggles once more.

I turned down a one day trial for the sake of Glastonbury (oh dear, that photo worries me, and why is at least one lot of the people in it walking in the wrong direction?) today (someone's other trial in the High Court is running over and they need cover). I'm trying not to think about the nominal additional cost of my ticket.

I'm in the process of packing in accordance with my usual method: pile everything I might possibly want into the middle of the room, in slow and desultory fashion with occasional breaks for pissing around on the interweb and cigarettes, then try and convince myself I don't need stuff after all. And checking here (ooh, hurrah, Saturday has gone down from two drops of rain to one, whatever a drop may represent -mm? cm? in? feet?) nervously and, to be frank, somewhat obsessively to see if anything has changed.

Conversation on the phone today: "you know this hearing I'm doing for you on Tuesday" "yes" "I still haven't received any papers you know, and I know nothing whatsover about it. What is it?" "Oh we'll be sending them to you tomorrow." "That's nice. You do remember I'm away until Monday evening." "Oh, that'll be fine." Hmm. They and a couple of others have my mobile phone number, so to equal a certain feat I achieved the Monday after Glastonbury a couple of years ago I may also become the first person to give formal legal advice from the Pyramid arena.

I am, of course, exaggerating a bit.

You'd think the BBC would have lined up some mildly interesting cover to deal with wet days at Wimbledon. What are they, shocked and surprised?

Time to pile up more stuff.

Ooh, the Big Brother house appear to be arguing about bogroll. That makes the first time in its entire history that they've actually behaved in the manner of a normal shared flat. (No I haven't been converted to it, its just on. There's a difference. Honest.)

I mentioned it somewhere else frequented by almost all of youse who are likely to care, but in case there are some of you in the wrong bit of the Venn diagram, George R. R. Martin has updated his site with the staggering and original news that he still hasn't finished A Feast for Crows. There is, however, a sample, Cersei POV.

For obvious reasons, I'm unlikely to be here till Monday evening. See those of youse heading for, or already in, a muddy field in Somerset there, hopefully. Phone will be off more often than on, but voicemail checked regularly.

Edited to add: oh dear, I feel old (I'm in the ones Katy's listed under clique as well as the truly awful one under my own name). Eight or nine years has done more damage than I thought.