Wet, wet, wet

Morning

This was the morning in which the heavens opened - and I mean absolutely deluged the place -- and I didn't even know it was raining until I pushed the boys out for the walk to school.  By halfway, our coats were saturated and then Noah asked where his book bag was. *EXPLETIVES* I marched them back home, they waited outside while I tore the house apart, looking for Noah's little blue bag. Turned up on the porch shelf, I'd searched every other bloody place and had just decided that Noah would have to survive without the bag today, before spotting it in the dimly lit space.

We dropped Noah off at Breakfast club, just as the door opened. Providing no assistance or hug, I said goodbye, reminded him that mum would pick him up and promptly scurried off with Leo under my arm.

We missed the bus. It must have been early. *ADDITIONAL EXPLETIVES*

I walked to Hillsborough, carrying Leo. At this point, sky tsunami had been reduced to a regular drizzle. A task that was sufficiently exhausting that I was sapped of all my anger by the time we reached Hillsborough corner. Leo was, however a little angry that we didn't get to ride a bus.

Listening

Final chapters of Fire and Fury, a cracking book that turned out to be far less dependent on the tittle-tattle gossip that had been much aired by the media. The book contains some good analysis and fills in a lot of the gaps and adds a lot of much-needed contexts that inevitably get lost in the scramble to keep up with the Trumpian news cycle.