It's 11.30 AM and I am still in my pajamas. I'm feeling the remnants of last week's (stomach flu? food poisoning?): dopey-headed and amazed at the paradox of my legs (flaccid, scaly and skinny: interesting).
The new apartment is a sprawl of space, dusty (dirty) floors and rooms whose purpose remains unclear.
Clara and Winton have been here a few times now. After the dramatic timing of my revelation of my old apartment's location to Clara (while it was burning down), it seems appropriate to be really up-front about this apartment even though the children don't overnight here yet.
The big draw of my new place is that the pet rats have also been revealed. Rose and Turnip, in their pink-eyed whiteness, have become playthings for the 7 and unders. I think this is a development which delights children and rats alike.
When your apartment burns down, people give you interesting things. Really nice cutlery, but also old boxes of cleaning supplies which include organic fungicides for garden plants (there is no garden here). Sometimes also kitchen utensils which are fabulous, and ones to which old fried eggs cling. Some furniture too, which makes for olfactory diversity: everything here smells distinctive. A grand bed smells like someone else, a stately doyenne of a couch smells dry and hot, a chair salvaged after the fire smells of campsites downdraft of the cooking.
It feels like a very long time since my life involved showing up for work, working, and then going to a predictable location ("home") to relax or exercise.
But I am also working. I had a theory that DBC Pierre and I J Kay were one and the same author. On the basis of vastly different habits regarding semi-colon usage, I have disproved my own theory. And thus I am working, regardless of how this pajamaed time reading novels looks.