Oh Whitney, Whitney, Whitney. I suppose we'll find out shortly what the cause of death was but I would imagine there was misadventure of some sort. Forget the loss of a star; she leaves a nineteen year old daughter. That's the real sadness. That, and the fact that they will probably re-release "I Will Always Love You".
I have rather been fastened to my bed this weekend, trying to shake off this virus, whatever it is. And half-waiting for this visit from the police, which is routine for new settlers but nevertheless a little unsettling. They don't say when they will come, so you could have half an eyebrow on or something.
What becomes more obvious the longer I spend in it is that a proper bed is needed. I have a perfectly nice IKEA mattress here but it's on the damn floor. At my advanced age, it is impossible to get off a mattress on the floor elegantly. If you imagine Gregor Samsa after his Metamorphosis trying to roll over in bed, that's fairly close. I have mastered a sort of two-part movement which can only really be accomplished if no-one is watching. Fortunately at the moment, no-one is. Therefore a trip to IKEA for a bed base is vital in the next few weeks. Or I could just stay here wiggling my legs in the air, waiting for the police.