Well, all things considered, being home is good.
B arrived home from lighting a wedding in Manchester at about 2.30 this morning.
At 7, we got up and staggered in to Liverpool for a crew meeting with Young Keith - because we now have a virtual office we have No Fixed Abode to meet and chat; so every couple of weeks we rendevous at the very wonderful Egg Cafe and eat smashing vegetarian food pretty constantly, whilst catching up with each other. This was today's Most Bestest Thing and was very productive. Young Keith is settling in well and he's fun to work with. Also, he lets me try his cake.
Then B went for a meeting with Tinfoil Hat Man.
We are project managing a gig for Tinfoil Hat Man later this week. At this late stage, he has finally revealed that his budgetary expectations are roughly two thirds of the minimum necessary to achieve even a rough approximation of his needs.
This is a problem.
We are going to make no money on the gig. Zero. Zilch. Zip. And many other words indicating nothing, some of them potentially not even beginning with a 'Z'. Neither is he though; which is a small compensation.
We could tell him to take his poorly organised, badly planned, chaotic, drug induced hallucination of a gig elsewhere.
However, we have decided that we are too professional to do that; partly because we should have been firmer with him to start with and beaten more information out of him earlier in the process. And partly because it's a gig that involves a large number of children - Christmas spirit prevails etc. etc.. And also, if we allow him to fuck us royally over at this point (and he is not doing it deliberately, which again, makes a difference), we'll at least walk away with our moral high ground intact and some good photos that we can use for marketing in the new year.
Oh, and did I mention that he was supposed to be paying us 50% up front, because last year we had to wait eight months (EIGHT MONTHS) for him to pay and he disappeared off the face of the earth and his ex-girlfriend kept phoning me to ask if I knew where he was?
But now that has evolved in to a cheque for 50% handed over on the day. To quote the always eloquent Great Kitchen Witch - "Gah".
Please do not leave me comments including sensible business advice. You will not be telling me anything that I don't know already. Double gah.
And then we came home and had to let the chicken out for a walk in the kitchen, because the cat box is a bit too small for her to stand up in.
Exploding Chicken has now cut her foot - her name may get changed from Exploding Chicken to Unlucky Exploding Chicken. She has a big lumpy bloody wodge on her foot that first appeared about ten days ago and healed up. And then a couple of days ago it started bleeding copiously again and wasn't healing in the wet and the mud and the inch of water that is covering the garden. So I've brought her inside and keep applying the iodine solution we got from the pharmacy in France when B got the tick wedged in his belly button, and it's drying up quite well.
She's asleep on the top of a stepladder in the kitchen at the moment and the cats are rather disturbed. Don't tell the adoption agency, they'll think we'll be giving potential children bird flu.
B's comment: "Oh god. Our clients are all nobbers and we have a chicken in our kitchen".
Obviously if you are one of our clients, he is NOT talking about you.
I have had four large glasses of homebrew that is really too rough to drink and I am not self-editing as I usually do. Bothered? Am I? Face? Bothered? Which reminds me that Kate and Vic gave us a Catherine Tate DVD for Christmas last year and we haven't even unwrapped it, let alone watched it. Gah again.
Ugh. Send cake.