From the sublime to the prosaic

The drugs in the form of weed have calmed down a wee bit, but my doc told me I shouldn't drive which wrote out work today. I spent a cheeky afternoon on the terrace reading Margaret Atwood's Lady Oracle.  The sky was cloudless and beautiful and the trees have made their canopy over the canal.  
Emma's sister came here once and said it was like being in a tree house, which is pretty much what it is.
I liked the mundanity of the rake and the clothes pegs.
Jo bought us an Irish gin called Wild Barrow.  I'd have bought it just for the name and the blue bottle, but the fact there was gin in it made it all the better.
Emma turned up with Paco.  We settled down in the Gin Palace.  Emma threw a packet of Haribos at Mu and told her to join us.  
We did a bit of Facebook stalking then the curfew obliged Em to leave.
Mu and I tried to move the sofa back into the house.  The gin palace turns out not to be rain proof and the sofa had crackled in places which seemed a crying shame given what it had gone through getting here.  My efforts were hampered by Mu's ineptitude because her hands were laughing. We got it in and I realised that I'd  adopted too many faux and real leather sofas from giving-away-because-it's-damaged-and-not-worth -a-penny websites and the room  now looks like a gentleman's club,  lacking gentility (although I imagine that's run of the mill in such places.)