I have that feeling I've forgotten something. You know the one? Hmm.
No news, let me get that out of the way. On the JB's job thing, or the Adoption Front. I have, as advised by the wonderful bunny, located a hot-desk space near here full of stop-motion animators of the beardy, gentle, lurcher-at-heel variety, so I have somewhere to escape to, if/when the Company of Spouse gets A Bit Much. I feel mean complaining about him (though he wouldn't mind; it is my great luck that he still finds me entertaining despite evidence to the contrary. He never takes things personally, in fact is a walking advert for bulletproof self-esteem; the kind that makes a frank conversation so easy, the kind that makes it possible to not take yourself so seriously.) (I'm looking at me. I can be so straight-faced.)
I'm awful, in fact. For instance, in the morning, he wakes up all bright and switched ON and ready to talk, and makes puddles of coffee (he drinks 354 cups a day) and leaves piles of crumbs in his wake, and every time I pass his little study which opens onto the living room which is the main thoroughfare of the house, a course a person who needs to go to the bathroom must run, he says Hello, Bobby.* No matter if he has just seen me five minutes before. Hello, Bobby. CAN YOU IMAGINE ANYTHING WORSE. This is actually sweet and childlike, but see above, I did tell you I was awful: I just don't want to talk. I want to be in the workflow.
So, now you see. Rather than be thrown together out by circumstances, it behooves me to find an alternative workspace and then be actually glad to be together in the evening. This will be a way of feeling less awful, for one thing. Avoidance of Conflict for Better Living. The round-the-clock immersion therapy that is marriage continues to be a wonderful, terrible, humbling thing, to sum up.
Beautiful Tony, our social worker, visited us here for the millionth time, for a home visit, to check the usual: do we have live wires hanging exposed from the ceiling, fizzing intermittently? Are we safe-housing a criminal on the run? Are we selling eightballs of coke out of the back lane? No, Beautiful Tony, we are not. He didn't even go upstairs, in fact, and I had spent ages cleaning and tidying up there. He just told us about his holidays in Portugal, we complained about the poor planning skills of the government, the apathy of the JB's students, he drank a cup of tea, and off he went.
I did forget to tell you my conscience got to me and so I am going for jury duty this week. As you probably know you can't talk about fight club jury duty so a curtain of silence will now descend upon the whole event. Probably. No, it will. I suppose.
I hope all is well, folks. Have a good week, wherever you are. I'll be Upholding Justice; spare me a thought.