En attendant teenagers

I have been awake since 5am, which is just foolish.

I have baked bread, and also brownies.

I have walked across the moor to the supermarket, and bought beer and coke and milk. Heavy liquids are heavy.

I have learned that if you want a debate to spring hotly to life in your LJ, you should mention Esperanto, or possibly Klingon.

I have begun the process of stripping out my bedroom. The thought did cross my mind as I began, that not everything that comes out needs to go back in again: in proof of which, I have just walked across the road to the recycling bins, in order to post-to-charity an old and much-loved jacket that saw me through many a winter here. It still has wear in it, I fancy - but not my wear. I threw something out! *pauses for the sounds of gasps, trumpets, &c*

I may yet throw out more things, tho' probably none that I have loved so well. I thought if I started big, it would make the littler stuff easier.

Never grow old, people. I am knackered already, and I hurt every time I bend; this is what comes of heavy liquids being heavy for a mile or so. And young people are coming, in all the unconscious mockery of their litheness and resilience. Sigh.

11.02

I had forgotten that I even owned some of these jackets.

Also, smart wool trousers! With a pinstripe!

Also, pink jeans!

Nobody would seriously expect me to throw out pink jeans, would they...?

18.48

The kids have been and gone. A few things are a little more broken than they were, but not many and not badly; and - what is far more to the point - the kids left thanking me (for the brownies, largely, but still), and have promised to come back later in the week and tackle the dining-room. With very possibly added painting. (I have decided that the way to clean a house, by and large, is to paint it.)

Already my house sits lighter upon the earth, for lack of one carpet and a vast quantity of dust. Most of which has migrated into my lungs, and I now cannot breathe at all. No matter. I shall walk through the rain, which will cool and soothe me; and then I shall see Spamalot, and die laughing.

I would say "bury me under my new clean house", but I don't think that's allowed. Tho' Kubrick was buried in his garden, so...