the politics of leaving vs. the politics of lonely

listening to ginger baker and whining children from next door. memo to self: start saving up to have tubes tied.

To quote dear Andy, "The mystery was gone but the amazement was just starting." Swallowing my ongoing bitterness regarding my seeming lack of global (lit) community, I forge on. The advantage to toiling in obscurity is that it doesn't matter if one's WORK is any good or not, as no one is paying attention anyway.

I digress. We slept on the floor for the first three nights and sat on cardboard boxes until our dear landlord lent us a couple of Ikea chairs to sit on. In fact it was the same model (oh form and function!) as an Ikea chair I had stolen from my cousin and which was at that time on a large cargo truck somewhere around Revelstoke. I hoped the similarity would reassure the cat.

E. my favourite transport truck driver did arrive as promised on Monday with a small crew in tow. In fact, after they had finished their work, and to thank J. for helping to load in Calgary, E. gave J. a small plastic baggie with an unexpected moving bonus.

After rolling and smoking the thing we were off to Ikea.

I will leave that image in your imagination for now - as I am cranky and need to go out for ice cream.

But first: we have just established that my brother Chris is built so slender because he looks like the men from my mother's side of the family, whereas I look like the men from my father's side of the family. Big and burly.