Breakfast the Sixty-Eighth

Honey Nut Cornflakes and Blueberries.

I want to know what has happened to all my socks. They're not in my drawer and they're not in my laundry basket.  I don't even seem to have many odd socks kicking about. Even the sock I keep my camera in has gone missing. I feel like Prince George in Blackadder.

I'm writing this in a turret, which is pleasing. Equally pleasing is the fact that the keyboard I'm writing this on makes a sort of bubbling, splish-sploshy noise when you type. The drawback to turrets though, is that they're rather chilly; my fingers are cold, cold, cold. Especially my left index finger which, ever since I slammed it in a door a couple of years ago, is almost always colder than the others. I know not why. But it hasn't dropped off yet, so I suppose there mustn't be anything sinister in it: it's just a subpar sort of a digit.