Glub. Glub. Glub.

It has been raining for ninety three million years and I've forgotten where my allotment is. I managed to plant some runner beans in the sucking mud last week and will have to swim up after work this week and see if the plot is still there. Only I can't, because I've taken on some freelance work that I've left till the very last minute and will have to do after work on Tuesday and Wednesday, then on Thursday I have to travel to the joy that is Luton in order to get up at ouch o'clock on Friday to clean out lemur cages, which, would you believe it, was my Christmas present from the Eejit. Then on Saturday I'm working the beer tent at Strawberry Fair which is the worst day of my year and I never, ever, can remember why I say yes every year. So I'm praying for rain. Which makes no sense at all.