That moment when the golden cube of golden brown cane sugar slowly sinks below the surface of your eagerly anticipated flat white. Gone forever into a milky morass from which it can never return. Then you sip it until you're forced to gulp the final few centimeters. Normally I don't bother with sugar either. Those are badly constructed sentences: some easy examples. I could go on.
I was out walking and noticed this: It seems that the more watery parts of the River Tay have disappeared and been replaced with sand or some similar material. A seasonal blip I presume.
I write this from a safe place set behind the flood defence systems. More tomorrow.
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