One swallow doth not a summer make, but when they all bugger off, you can pretty much guarantee it's been and gone. Yup, the little chittering swines have been swooping and soaring around the old homestead for a while now, eating the bugs, teasing the cat, banging into the windows. Silly sods - shouldn't drink and fly, haven't they seen the adverts on telly? But recently they've taken to lining up on the telephone wires and the roof, hatching plans to fly south. Or maybe they're just arguing over directions and whose turn it is to drive this time? Either way, they're off.
So that was summer, eh? Barely touched the bloody sides this year. I blame the mice.
In other news, She Who Must Be Hit On The Back Of The Head With A Bourbon Biscuit has now finished reading Dying Light, so I suppose I have no excuse now for not giving it a final once over with Mr Sheen (shines umpteen things clean) and sending it on its merry bloody way. Rampaging through the ether like a ferret with a chainsaw. Or a pair of poultry shears - which is more accurate, given the contents. Here's your hat and what's your hurry?
Right, I'm off now to lie down in a darkened room.