In the green, grassy (albeit it grey) peninsula of Cornwall, it has been trying to snow. For 'snow', read 'sleet with ambitions above its station', which has now decided to fall as pitiless grey rain. Bingley was perched on Prodigal 2's windowsill, like a little grey cat-sicle, catawauling that he was underfed and homeless, even though he had access through the backdoor and therefore to his well-stocked food dish. I have resolutely shut my curtains on it all and am drifting from one job site to another. First thing I have noticed is a lot of nursing and security staff wanted - and precious little else. Not a lot then for quirky former uni grad, but on I plod, hoping that there is something out there for me.
Tonight, I am helping Hubby redo his CV so it is up to date - basically not only getting to wag his tail, but also wag the tail of any company that might employ him. Joy.