And pigs might fly

Ok, I'm totally tempting fate here, but having told everyone at Dev & Jeff's Easter lunch I figure I've already rowed all the way out on 'asking for it lake'. So here goes:

I've bought a flat - again, but will say no more about it until I have the keys in my hands. Although, rather sadly, I have already done two practice runs from the new flat to my place of work to establish timings. It takes 26 minutes (at 'this is as close as I get to running' pace), 33 minutes (at 'don't dare think you're worthy enough to speak to me' pace) and 41 minutes (at 'Flexi time means I don't need to be in until 10:30. Oh look, aren't the daffodils lovely? pace). I'm like one of those irritating couples who plan the drive to hospital when they're expecting a child. God, I hate myself.

Speaking of God, Dev cooked a pig in his honour last Sunday. It was undoubtedly the holiest ham ever to travel the well worn road that is my geographer's tongue. The pig of God (as it was christened on The Roquefort Files) had been cooked in Coke, and was so delicious that while I may never be fooled into buying the usual pig in a poke, there'd be no hesitation in buying a pig in Coke - even if said pig in coke was actually in a poke at the time.

Anyway, Dev's dinner was a triumph and the disciples dining that day were on top form, which made for plenty of hilarity.