knock knock

There is a nasty dry taste in the mouth again, a night asleep, and now that. There is still dust in the hair left over from yesterdays expoits, the repairing of the entrance to the upstairs bathroom.
It would have been better to have taken the shower last night, that only leaves this morning. Put the nights shirt into the clear plastic box for the dirty washing, and take a walk across the cold flagstones to the bathroom, brush the teeth. The mint flavoured toothpaste dispels the nasty taste in the mouth, the warm water of the shower washes the dust from the body, the dust that had rested there all night.

Later on at the bureau it the bedroom see that the computer, which had made noises in the night, wanted an update. It is easier to say that the computer wanted it, rather than some bureaucrat in Cupertino. Thus take the easy way, and let the bureaucrats vanish from sight. Press the required buttons, type in the passwords, and let the machine go catatonic for three quarters of an hour. Meanwhile, make a cup of coffee.
Or two.

The news of the steadily increasing number of infected persons in the world is sobering, and wonder when the man with the scythe is due to knock on the door.
But then, he is so busy now that he will probably not bother to knock.