Feb 20th

Harder to get up earlier than yesterday, and the morning is not only cold, but damp, and a thick, greasy fog is hanging over Wycombe. It swirls around all the way to Watford and brings the traffic to a crawl. Just as I was setting out I was summoned by H, with her natural sense of timing, to attach the jump leads to the mobile skip. Immediately the burglar alarm screeches through the soupy fog, not once nor twice but thrice, doubtless to the joy of the neighbours.
H looks as though he has just got up and seems grumpy, and I suspect a little resentful as I don't move him on as quickly as he'd like. But he gets the hang of things and is making reasonable progress.
A drive from there to Prestwood where, L is making attempt no 6 on her test, and the second in a month. She is well capable of doing it, and just has to approach it in the right frame of mind. Her driving is always a little untidy, but she should be allowed a licence.
R is the examiner, the same as last time. He is his usual friendly self, though the conveyor belt nature of the job is demonstrated by the fact that he doesn't recognise L.
We manage to get out of the centre without crashing into the kerb this time, brake a bit shharply at the first roundabout, but apart from that she drives like an angel. The tension mounts as she does her left reverse. I have to lie down so have no way of knowing what goes on, but it all seems good. I peer over at Randall's score sheet and it all looks devoid of black marks. Tension grows as we head back. I start thinking. Three more junctions; don't blow it! But she never looks like making a mistake, and when R tells her the good news she shrieks with joy. Nice chat with R afterwards, he is a warm and very human fellow. Wales should be proud of him!
Take her home and say farewell. She hadn't told her family she was taking the test, though I nearly blew it when meeting her Dad. Would have like to be a fly on the wall when she broke the news, but then I usually miss that bit, which is sad.
Take her home and mooch round Asda for this evening's sustenance. On the news Obama is beginning to look as if he will pull out of reach of Hil, having won 10 states on the trot.
Spend the evening in couch spud mood, watch the scumbags salvage a 1-1 draw with their usual last gasp equaliser. Vomit!
Want to start getting the home vids on DVD, but despite scouring the loft I cannot find them. As I had been meaning to get them for a fortnight, and I was finally motivated, it was a piss off. I overturned various piles of shite in the bedroom, the annexe, the shite room, the sitting room, Dan's room, the loft, but in this bloody hovel, when something is put down it's as good as lost. Must do the shite inventory, if only to marvel at the magnitude of the catastrophe. I am beginning to resign myself to the fact that I will always live surrounded by this,, and I find it horribly depressing.