So I've obviously bored everyone to death by moping about feeling sorry for myself for being here, and o counteract that, there's been a concerted effort in my inbox today to cheer me up.
Sherlock sent me a picture of John asleep in bed (John probably doesn't know that yet) with Maf wrapped around his head so her tail looks like he's grown an unfortunate beard.
Or maybe he's grown an unfortunate beard.
Then Jo sent me this, of Tadhg.
With a note saying 'We'll show Sherlock that even sleeping babies are fun!"
Here's a picture of a crab that tried to attack me.
And here's a bit of the landscape I'm surrounded by - it's not ALL like this. Just most of it. There's a green bit, too, but it's often misty and you can't really see it that well.
And here's one of the crime scenes - well, right by it. I mean, not that you'd know, now. There's not police tape, no nothing, to mark it out.
It's fairly bleak, but beautiful. Everything I see I wish John and the boys could be here to see it too. It would make such a difference. A world of difference.
I can't really say anything about the case, sorry.
It's 25 years today since the Marchioness disaster. I wasn't at work that night, I was out clubbing. But I remember coming out of the club, would have been about...four or five in the morning, I suppose, and someone talking about what had happened on the river. At first we assumed - everyone did - that people would survive that. I mean, you're in a river, in a city, not miles out to sea or something. But the next day...well, it all became clear that wasn't the case. I remember some of the mortuaries in the city being extra busy, officers having to take parents to identify their kids.
Anyway, here's thinking of everyone involved.
Miss you, John, Sherlock, Mycroft. I really do.