"The name's Crocker."

"Betty Crocker."

Yeah, I made Dad triceratops biscuits for Father's Day. I don't know if he liked them or not. I liked them.

After a mad search for envelopes I thought I had and did not have, the magazines were dropped in the post this morning. Arthur Miller should get his before the end of the week; you internetaional kids will have to wait and see. I've no idea how long they'll take, but it was airmail, so it shouldn't be too long.

I feel bad for those of you who missed out, so if you want to send me your postal address anyway, I think I have some squid and cuttlefish postcards still lying around. Somewhere. Possibly.

I'm having some trouble with myself. After a lovely couple of months respite the universe is reasserting itself, and the axis of Planet Tessa is a bit wobbly. I've also manaegd to fall behind on my own work, which is pretty impressive considering I don't actually have any deadlines to meet. Regardless, I'm behind, so blogging will be sparse for a while.

To keep you entertained while I am gone, I give you the end of the world, a la big ass asteroid.