Goodness, but it has been a long time.
All sorts of things have happened.
There's been a trip to Melbourne, which ended up with severe flu and delayed flights home.
There's been angst about one's employment - yet to be resolved.
There's been all sorts of busyness around a sustainability initiative.
There's been a dawning realisation that one of the surviving chicks is a rooster, then crowing confirmation of same, followed by arranging an adoption.
There's been car troubles of the sizeable-repair-bill kind.
And last night there was weirdness.
At 2.30am, Beloved leapt out of bed, Prudence struggled slowly through the layers of sleep.
There was kerfuffling and Beloved came back into the bedroom.
"What's going on?" asked Prudence.
"The TV was on," said Beloved, "and the dog's missing."
Not what one expects to hear at such an ungodly hour.
It turned out the dog, who knows better, but is determinedly naughty, had decided to sleep on the couch, rather than her own bed. In getting settled, she'd trod or lain or something on the remote control, thus turning on the television.
Having freaked herself out, she'd sought refuge in bed with Beloved's 12-year-son who happened to be staying over.
Which was a much nicer outcome than the original hypothesis which involved dog-napping, television-controlling ghosts.