Monday morning

Thank Christ! The tie on the chair did not belong to anyone inappropriate. It is John Claude's. He left it there when he and Kate went to have a 'quiet drink' (wink wink) at the bar around the corner.

The rest of the night is still a bit of a blur. I am in the process of trying to piece it all back together when I see Ben saunter past my office with one of the young paralegals tagging along behind him like some sort of love sick puppy.
This merger is going to change things a lot round here. And in ways I don't think I will like very much.

Already the boys from ABC have sent around an email trying to set up a footy tipping competition. There was no footy tipping competition before they arrived. The most exciting sport discussion would happen in hushed whispers in the kitchen over a cuppa before it was quashed by a detailed consideration of whether Meredith should in fact have drowned on Grey's Anatomy last night.

I miss those days. They were nice and safe.

My nice and safe feeling is slowly disappearing. First I am subjected to 'footy tipping' and now I have to go and meet with Uncle about the splendidly disastrous court appearance last Friday. I know he will rip the rug of independence from under my feet and I will be babied. I understand why he has to do it. Keep up appearances etc. But it just feels so nasty and awful. It's like being slimed. BCF slime.