Happy Halloween, everyone! As I mentioned in my last post, Terry and I have our second costume party of the season to attend this Saturday, so naturally we both woke up yesterday morning with bad colds: yay! We're currently dosing ourselves up with vitamin C and Lemsip, in the hopes of being back to full strength by the weekend, but we're not managing to do a whole lot more than that (I'm speaking for myself here, naturally: Terry managed to do a solid four hours worth of work on the garden yesterday, despite the fact that it was pouring with rain and he felt like hell. I stayed inside, feeling sorry for myself and wondering if my next costume should just be "Rudolph, Red-Nosed Reindeer". I have the nose for it, after all...) so as I don't have any outfit photos, or indeed, ANYTHING else to post, I figured today would be the perfect day to share with you all the scary real-life story of something that happened to me in Miami this summer. I call it 'The Secret Box'. This tale is SO creepy you may want to make sure you read it with the lights on. That said, it's also so "creepy" that I had completely forgotten about it until a couple of weeks ago, at which point I thought, "Oh yeah, I should totally trot that one out for Halloween this year. Because it's not like anything else ever happens, does it?" So you might want to take what I just said about the lights with a pinch of salt. Anyway, let us begin!
When I blogged about not having anything to blog about earlier this week, some of you were kind enough to say that you're willing to tolerate posts about the Less Than Interesting stuff which is basically all that ever happens around here at the moment. This post is your fault. Nah, I'm just joking. See, the thing is, I've always kept journals. I got my first diary when I was ten, and each new year after that was marked by the opening of a brand new journal, in which I would meticulously document every tedious detail of my life, just in case I became famous one day and my biographers needed some info on what I had for lunch on the 16th of January, 1994, or something equally important. When I started this blog, I stopped keeping journals. There just didn't seem to be much point, when the blog was there to serve as the record of my life instead. But then, as I mentioned in my previous post, somewhere along the line the blog stopped being about my life, and so all of those little details were lost to the mists of time. What will my biographers do NOW, I wonder? Well, today I'm here to help them along, because in an bid to re-introduce some of the more personal/boring stuff to this blog, here is a novel-length post about my garden. You're welcome.