And so I registered my mild protest by not accessing LJ yesterday.
I'm not calling it a strike. A strike is when there's something important at issue. A strike is when you and your brilliant mates are all huddled round a brazier at the factory gates and passing motorists honk in sympathy. A strike is when you starve. To call not blogging a "strike" is absurdly inflated.
It wasn't hard to do. Hooray, I guess that means I'm not an addict. I can walk away at any time. Still there were times when I got a bit twitchy.
So what happened while I was away? On Thursday I was rooting about in a high cupboard and an ornament I just hadn't noticed (how can that have been?) toppled out and clocked me on the head- driving the bridge of my glasses into the bridge of my nose. And that's why I look like I've been scrapping on the picket line.
And yesterday Ailz and I cleaned out the rabbit room. It was a bit like farming and involved the use of a hay rake. We removed three bags of hay and straw- which I spead out on the garden.
It was a windy night. When I was younger I used to enjoy lying in bed, all cosy, listening to the wind prowling the streets and roaring in the chimney, but Ailz has infected me with her fears- and now I lie awake, waiting for the slates to come clattering off the roof.
It's still windy this morning, with flashes of bright, silvery light, and- according to the forecast- an outside chance of snow.