There is an illustrated children's book called "The artist" in which the characters are mostly dogs. It's a horrible, horrible book, and I wanted to write about what is so very wrong with it, but I can't find it with an internet search because -- well, it's called "The artist." And so are a jillion other books and movies.
So, the book gets off without a scolding from me because I can't find it, but you know what? Nobody's going to say "Well, Lucy hates it, but she makes it sound interesting, I guess I'll check it out," either, and as far as I can tell the book has died a lonely and obscure death.
It did deserve it, though.
On another front: I have a new spot to pick wild plums, and therefore over four kilos of plums . . . but I can't find any canning lids despite the fact I know I have at least two boxes somewhere, so I hope the plums keep till tomorrow night.
So, the book gets off without a scolding from me because I can't find it, but you know what? Nobody's going to say "Well, Lucy hates it, but she makes it sound interesting, I guess I'll check it out," either, and as far as I can tell the book has died a lonely and obscure death.
It did deserve it, though.
On another front: I have a new spot to pick wild plums, and therefore over four kilos of plums . . . but I can't find any canning lids despite the fact I know I have at least two boxes somewhere, so I hope the plums keep till tomorrow night.
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