It is the best of times, it is the worst of times.

Going home for five days.

Dad unwell.

I am scared and sad.

But the garden will look kind of, somewhat, almost, like this. And it will be warm. And I hope to help my Dad recover quickly and smoothly.

Right now, though, I'm typing this in a room strewn with last-minute packing mania. And looking out of the window. Much like Carrie on an evening in. Without the hair. And the face. And the apartment.

But with the Man typing away on his football website in the other room.

Score.