A Wallander prequel
and yet more Scandinavian noir. After reading Forshaw, I've a wishlist on
Amazon full of dark brooding authors with unpronounceable names and a
mystifying support for Tottenham Hotspur (that may be just
Jo Nesbø though, for
all I know Arnaldur Indridason or Camilla Lackberg could be Charlton Athletic
diehards). Ken Branagh's Wallander has
just started again, and I'm badgering Helen to go to Scania for our next holiday.
Fred has a settling in day at school today and H is going to see if we can skip
the first week in September when he goes in for just 2 hours a day. Then we can
get a cheaper holiday. How disgraceful of us. We're only just back from 2 weeks
in Cornwall in the wettest June of all time, but I didn’t get enough sandcastle
time and need more.
I've had to stop
running for the past few weeks as my knees are absolutely shot. I think it's
because of carrying heavy, heavy children for prolonged periods of time on
holiday. I had to skip the London 10K yesterday because of it. I really hope
this isn't permanent damage as I'd hate to have to give up running. I may have
to go and see the doctor. . .
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