Bloody Sunday

I've conquered Henry James; it turns out Maisie knew quite a lot, the unfortunate little sod.  Now onto Austerlitz, which sent me to sleep yesterday afternoon, but I'll get there in the end.

With the house-move partly underway, I've managed to do my back in, so the poor boyfriend is on his own with the lifting and carrying, while I direct operations from the sidelines with a hot-water bottle and a towering pile of painkillers.  My timing is just spot-on.  Meanwhile, the living room's full of boxes, and I've been wondering if we wouldn't be better off creating a box-fort for the year rather than dealing with landlords.  I'm filing that plan away for future re-evaluation.

Two weeks to go before I can go wild with a student discount once again, and pretend to be a 'young person' on the trains.  Exciting times.  Now, excuse me while I hobble to the kitchen, clutching my spine and mumbling about my limbs and my aches and my pains and how it was all better back in my day.

No comments: