Robert Palmer died in Paris yesterday, only 54 years old. I heard it on the news, and was instantly transported back in time to the one and only concert of his I've ever been to. A friend of mine had tickets for it, but at the very last minute decided that she'd rather "work on her relationship" instead and gave her ticket to me (I'd arrived to mind her little boy, my godson Lars), waving me off in the company of a bunch of strangers, people I'd never seen before or since. God, it must be 10 years ago, or more. Lars was still a toddler.
I'm glad to have had this opportunity to see him live, as I've always liked his music; but it soon became apparent that Mieke ought to have saved herself the trouble of 'the talk', because her then boyfriend (Lars's dad) left her anyway.

Spent the evening at my Mum's, discussing the practicalities of moving my Dad into a nursing home; and found that Gérald had stopped by my place while I was out. He'd left an envelope with the key to his Brussels apartment and detailed directions together with a sweet, sweet note. I don't know how he got to hear of my best friend's and my plan to spend the weekend in the Belgian capital, and as I haven't been able to reach him I don't think I'll find out anytime soon, but I'm very touched, and very grateful for his hospitality. Especially since I hardly know the guy - so far, we've only met on two occasions this year.

So, the plan is to get the kitty nosh in before Pee shows up...I'd better wrap this up. But not before pimping estepheia's challenge for a 500-1,000 word ficlet for the recently started spiketara-community. I've had a few ideas for it myself, but the words don't seem to want to come. Maybe that drabble I did a couple of days ago really was all I was capable of...:(

Oh, and julchek: I think that TV Guide you said was coming my way has arrived. At least, there was a thick brown envelope with your name on it sticking out my letterbox this morning -- so cheers, love!