Bullet point, uh, Wednesday

Every time I think of bullet points I hear a little "peow peow" in my head, and it is quite cute, but also hard to replicate in written form.

• The unwanted wall is down in the shop. The space is splendid.
• The shelves that the bloke said will take 2 weeks will in fact take "15-20 working days". This means the shop is, in fact, 15-20 working days from opening.
• All the sickness seems to have left the house. I'm madly touching wood, because I managed to avoid it (well, I didn't get it, but I didn't entirely avoid it, given the need for me to look after sick blokes).
• I cooked an actual meal tonight. Nobody commented, so perhaps they haven't noticed I've been getting away with pretty much making toast for the past 3 years.
• I'm going to a cocktail function on Friday. I will carry around 4 olives on a stick and call myself a Dirty Marthini. I'm not really, but that is as far as I have got to thinking about what to wear to the damn thing.
• I'm having an issue with canned food. Doesn't an entire tin and label seem an excessive amount of packaging for 4 tomatoes? And how do they do that for 79 cents?
• Currently my version of "deep" is very, very shallow. I quite like it. Who can ask for more than a complete absence of angst? Could I have written a more confusing sentence?
• Peow peow.