Even more carpet replenishment and vinyl adhesive fumes. Needless to say, the architect of our current misfortunes is nowhere in smelling distance: e'en as I write he's Flying Down To Rio.
The air is thick with the bronchial chant of library staff and mentholyptus. Them as is not sucking on Miner's Mates and Fishermen's Friends are taking advantage of Frog's laying in a crate of MacGillivray's Patent Horse Linctus. All in all the place sounds like a depression-era TB sanitorium. There's nice.