April 20, 2014

Shadows is here!

Surviving Easter

 

Peter’s had another fall.

I went to the Easter Vigil at the monks’ last night and it wasn’t over till after eleven—and then they fed us tea and cakes.*  So I got home late and it took me forever to wind down** and eventually went to bed late even for me.***

I’d left Peter a note that I wasn’t going to make our 11:30 pick up—since the stroke he walks into town to buy a newspaper, he’s old-fashioned like that, and I appear with Wolfgang and a backseat full of hellcritters at the appointed hour and take all of us down to the mews.  My note said that I’d ring him.

I rang him at 11:30, after about half an hour of evolving wakefulness, swearing and caffeine, and said I could be at the pick-up point at 12:30.  I’m not coming, he said.  What? I said.  I’ve had a fall, he said:  It’s okay.

IT’S NOT OKAY.  WHY DIDN’T YOU ******* RING ME.

I knew you went to bed late last night, he said.  I didn’t want to bother you.

AAAAAAAAAAAUGH.  WHY DO I TAKE POOKA TO BED WITH ME?  WHY DOES SHE LIE ON THE EDGE OF THE BOOKSHELF RIGHT BY THE BED HEAD, RIGHT NEXT TO MY ALARM CLOCK, SO I CAN’T POSSIBLY NOT HEAR HER IF SHE RINGS?†  LIKE, IF YOU GET IN TROUBLE AND COULD USE MY HELP?††

It’s okay, said Peter.  I’m fine.

Well . . . as falls in the bath when you’re eighty-six years old go, yes, he’s pretty healthy.  He still looks like an extra from one of the battle scenes in BRAVEHEART.  Meanwhile I was down to sing at St Margaret’s tonight†††, it’s Easter, and—I’ve told you this, haven’t I?—the Master of Music, whom we shall call Mr Bach‡, has decreed that there shall be no more than THREE singers, so if one of us doesn’t show it’s a bit conspicuous.  So I viewed my gory husband‡‡ with disfavour‡‡‡ and declared I was going to church as scheduled.

Aloysius had sent us our list of six—six—songs gallantly early in the week, which chiefly gave me time to freak out.§  Also there have been one or two other things going on.  And then I got there tonight and after having a brisk lesson in being a roadie (‘plug that in there—and that in there—and that in there’§§) I discovered that what we were performing only bore a genetically modified family resemblance to the YouTube links.  Arrrrrgh.  Oh, and I’d’ve made a hole in the line up if I’d cancelled?  There were only two of us singers.  ARRRRRGH.§§§

But there were big handfuls of chocolate eggs on all the little café tables that we gather around at the evening service.  Eat up, said Buck.  I don’t want any left.  Hey, singing in front of an audience burns a lot of calories.#  And there was roast chicken when I got home.

Happy Easter.##

* * *

* Banana coconut cake to die for, just by the way.  I’m going to ask Alfrick if there’s a recipe.^  There was also hot chocolate for anyone who can deal with dairy.  Siiiiiiiigh.

^ Alfrick’s a good cook.  Experienced in producing lavish spreads for mobs with varying dietary requirements.

** Christ is risen, you know.  The Anglicans raise him Saturday night which is fine with me—I’m not invested in the three days thing, I want the Friday part over as fast as possible—plus driving.  That the Saviour lives is exciting enough but driving a car really winds me up.

*** . . . Never mind.

† That is, barks.

†† And it’s worse than that.  He fell in the bath.  The bath apparatus the NHS physios tried to set up didn’t work with him in this bath, so they took it away again.  And he has insisted on going on having his bath in the morning when I’m not here rather than the evening when I am.  It was clear I wasn’t going to win this battle and purposeless bloodshed does not appeal, so I let it go.  Even knowing it was an accident waiting to happen, it’s not like I could lock the bathtub when I left at night.  But  . . . he fell in the bath having spent most of half an hour trying to get out of it first.  He fell in the bath having spent most of half an hour trying to get out of it with HIS phone within easy reach.

I’m running away from home to join a convent.^

^ Also, the Nightmare of Hellhound Digestion continues.+

+ And by current indications Darkness is planning on dragging me all over Hampshire again later tonight.  Joy.

††† I know Easter is supposed to be pretty epic, but . . . it is.  And bouncing between St Margaret’s and the monks for the last few days has rendered me even more la-la-la-la than I would be anyway:  if you’re going to engage with the Easter story, it’s going to rip you up pretty extensively, and I’m old to be learning graphic new skills.

Generally speaking I find St Margaret’s less embarrassing because it’s less formal.  But in the can’t-take-me-anywhere category . . . Good Friday at the monks includes the abbot and some candle-holders and incense-swingers doing an abbreviated Stations of the Cross which finishes with everybody else queuing up to genuflect and kiss the cross that was sequentially unwrapped during the Stations.  My turn:  I managed the genuflection without killing anyone but I misjudged the bending-forward business and managed to impale my face on the sticky-out bits of the cross.  Wounded by God.  Good . . . grief.  Fortunately the cross was being held by two stalwart young men, possibly in expectation of someone like me, so no damage done.  Except to my face, of course.

At least I managed to cross myself a couple of times at more or less the right moment without poking myself in the eye—or in my neighbour’s.  I’ve made a few hopeless attempts to find out what the actual system is at a high-Anglican service but since it apparently varies from church to church and priest to priest anything google might be able to teach me would turn out to be wrong.  It would also be helpful if the actual order of service books produced BY the monks for their attendees were frelling accurate.    And why does everyone else in the congregation seem to know which bits to ignore?

‡ PDQ.  I am not a fan of a Master of Music who limits singers to three.

‡‡ Head wounds BLEED.  Also he’s on Warfarin.  Whimper.

‡‡‡ Georgiana was here this afternoon, and in a family notorious for its bossy women we may be the two bossiest.  And Peter stood up to both of us with aplomb and dispatch^ so he probably is okay.

^ Including things like chaining himself to the railing rather than be taken to A&E.

§ Also . . . I rather like one of them.  Oh God I am losing my musical integrity.

§§ I think the church’s bass amp is about as old as I am.

§§§ Tonight’s other singer, Janey, who has been singing at St Margaret’s for many years, said, somewhat grimly, in response to my craven desire for sheet music, that learning any given song is of limited usefulness on the night since every leader performs it differently.  She picked up the lyric-only sheet of our first song.  This one, she said.  Aloysius plays it one way.  Buck does it another.  PDQ does it yet another.  Samantha another.  Are there any other leaders?  They do it differently too.

Oh.

# And my husband seems to have hidden the GIGANTIC chocolate egg another branch of the family brought us on Saturday.  I have to get my ellipsoidal chocolate fix somehow.

## Although the Darkness situation is still outstanding.  And I’m trying to decide if I should wake Peter up before I leave and make sure nothing new has swollen or developed bruising and his pupils are still the same size as each other.

Emma Tupper’s Diary

 

 

I told you it had been reissued:  http://robinmckinleysblog.com/2014/02/13/dont-i-keep-trying-to-reinstate-short-wednesdays/  Almost any of Peter’s books, if you mention it suddenly and catch me off guard I will probably say, Oh, that’s one of my favourites!  But in Emma Tupper’s case I’m telling the truth.

Here’s a new review by its very own republisher:  http://smallbeerpress.com/not-a-journal/2014/04/16/reading-like-its-1971/ *

I was already distressingly near to grown up by 1971 and wasn’t hanging out in kids’ book sections any more.  I knew about Peter Dickinson, but I knew him for his rivetingly bizarre murder mysteries.  It would take several more years and a job at the children’s division of Little, Brown (as it then was), for me to learn what I had been missing.  L,B had the back catalogue of its colleague Atlantic Monthly Press on its shelves too . . . including Peter Dickinson’s kids’ books.  Including Emma Tupper.

If you haven’t read it yet, what are you waiting for?  You don’t have to be told a third time, do you?**

* * *

* I wish I’d grown up on a Scottish loch side.  ^

^ I’m keeping the five years in Japan though.

** Makes a good gift too.

Curses. Foiled again.

 

I was supposed to be going to a concert tonight.  Well, I was supposed to be going to a concert tomorrow night, only I kept forgetting, because Saturday night is Monk Night* and that there might be something else going on doesn’t register unless you nag me relentlessly**.  So by the time I remembered—chiefly because I was going to be seeing the friend who was singing in it and wanted me to come—it had sold out.  Never mind, she said, come to the dress rehearsal.  Which I would probably have enjoyed more anyway because it’s more of the nuts and bolts of putting on a performance***.

It has not been a brilliant day.  I went with Peter when he saw his GP this morning, and the frelling doctor was forty five minutes late without explanation or apology.†  Sound of Robin scraping herself off the walls since Peter likes his doctor and I don’t want to disturb this desirable situation by, for example, putting said doctor through the clinic paper shredder.††   Then Peter and I had our usual Friday foray to the farmers’ market, to which I bring the hellhounds so they were okay, but I got back to the cottage finally and very late to an EXTREMELY CRANKY HELLTERROR who had to be soothed by . . . well, give her a dog biscuit and she’s your slave for life, or at least till the next dog biscuit, but I figured I owed her a good walk.†††

Meanwhile I’d had a text from Niall reminding me that the much-neglected-by-me Friday handbells were occurring tonight at 5:30 as usual . . . I’d already texted him back that I was coming, after which I was going to have to rip off to the concert.   Good thing I don’t write the blog every night any more, I thought, harnessing up hellhounds for their pre-handbell sprint.

. . . And Darkness has the geysers again.  WAAAAAAAAAAAH. ‡

So I stayed home.

And I thought, oh well, I might as well write a blog post.  Sigh.

* * *

* Which is a ratbag on your social life, if any.  But the Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament—which I think I’ve told you before?, is that you stare at the wafers they’re going to use at Mass on Sunday morning, which are suspended in some manner within this golden starburst thing I’m told is called a monstrance^ is kind of booked to happen Saturday night.  Clearly weeks need an eighth day, so you can get your serious acting-out post-work-week over with, or possibly just go to a concert, on that day^^ between Friday and Saturday and be sufficiently clean, upright and awake^^^ for wafer-contemplation on Saturday night.

^ Which I feel is an unfortunate derivation.  Like calling angels vampires because one of the origins+ of ‘vampire’ may refer to spirits of the air.  And why is a rosary either a rose garden or a loop of prayer beads?  I know—garland.  But confusing.

+ disputed, but I think they’re all disputed

^^ Which I feel should be called Loki-day or Misrule-day except the world would probably end.  So maybe we could call it Dead Sheep day or Dwarf Conifer day.

^^^ I will not say no one has ever fallen asleep during the Exposition.  Unless you fall off your chair+ it’s not a big deal in the congregation—all one or two or three of us—because we’re sitting in the dark till the service begins.  The black-garbed chappies up on the dais . . . yeah.  They’re kinda visible if they start to nod.++  But the Benedictine order is heavily into physical, three-dimensional this-world work, and my monks have probably been rescuing kittens from the tops of two-hundred-foot leylandii cypresses and doing the steel-driving man thing alongside soulless steam drills+++ all day and are tired.

+ NO.  I HAVEN’T.  THANKS FOR ASKING.

++ Alfrick never falls asleep.  He’s my hero.

+++ And winning, of course.  Our railroads need a few miracles.

** And even then nothing is guaranteed except that I’ll probably bite your head off.

*** I’m singing again at St Margaret’s on Sunday—AAAAAAAUGH—the nice young man who is leading this week dutifully sent the playlist last night with the video links—AAAAAAAAUGH.  I’d far rather be learning The sun whose rays are all ablaze^ or I Want to Be a Prima Donna^^

^ The Mikado.  You’d’ve remembered in a minute.

^^ On the spectacular perversity of bodies:  my singing practise at home is pretty . . . erratic, both because I’m an erratic kind of person (!) but also because I have an erratic kind of voice, which I gather is pretty standard, it’s just if you’re good and/or professional you learn workarounds.  I will warm up a bit, sing a folk song, warm up a bit more, sing another folk song, lie on the floor and do a few breathing exercises, sing another folk song or an old gospel thumper, sing something I’m actually working on to bring to Nadia . . . do a few more warm ups.  What I sing and how I sing it is entirely based on the noise I’m making:  on a good-noise day I’ll do a lot more than on a bad-and-I-can’t-seem-to-make-it-better-noise day.  Most days are in between:  if I keep doing warm-ups and vowelly exercises and approaching the intractable from different angles I will at least improve.  Probably.  I also try not to get too hung up on what specific notes I’m singing—this is on Nadia’s advice—find a range my voice is happy in and sing there.

But by the end of a good practise I’m singing a high B as part of an exercise pattern without any particular effort—my much-desired-for-silly-reasons high C is clearly there I just haven’t quite had the courage to have a stab at it—somebody tell me why, as soon as I’m trying to sing a song, I can’t even hit a frelling G reliably.  Because my blasted throat closes up and goes no no no no no!  Eeep eeep eeep eeep eeeep!+  I tried to be clever about this the other day, and snaked out a few bars of Prima Donna where you’ve got a G-to-G octave leap, because octave leaps are a gift they’re so nice and obvious, and I use them in exercises all the time.  But my voice wasn’t having any of it.  I know what you’re trying to do, it said, and went squeaky.  ARRRRRRRGH.

Tonight’s concert included a professional soloist singing something that I—theoretically—sing, and I might have found this educational.  I might also have come home and burnt my music books, so maybe it’s just as well I didn’t go.

+ What’s even more irritating is when I’m sharp rather than flat.  Usually it’s flat—which is losing your nerve at a big fence so your horse raps it with his knees and brings a pole down.  Sharp is jumping eight feet over a three-foot fence.  But if I give up and sing along with the piano . . . okay, the note’s true enough but it’s got a frelling edge on it you could slice bread with.  ARRRRRRRRGH.

† I GOT A LOT OF KNITTING DONE.  It’s been a good week for knitting.  I got a lot of knitting done at St Margaret’s AGM equivalent earlier in the week too.  Gah.  Groups of PEOPLE.  DISCUSSING things.  Nooooooooo.  I’m a Street Pastor!  I’m going to be a Samaritan!  My social conscience is FULLY BOOKED UP!  I don’t have to do church-AGM-related things too!

†† No jury would convict me.  My barrister or whoever would be sure to load the jury with people who have WASTED HOURS OF THEIR LIVES IN DOCTORS’ WAITING ROOMS.

†††  She’s crated if she’s left alone, so if she’s been locked up longer than she thinks she should be she tends to emerge like the Blue Angels/Red Arrows at an air show.  WHEEEEEEEEEEEE.

What frelling happens in March?  We’ve had a really bad March, that is, the hellhounds have, and I have because I’m responsible.  The hellterror, I am delighted to say, seems to be maintaining intestinal integrity this year.  I thought we were coming through it. . . . But it all went horribly wrong in March last year . . . what happens in March? 

All change. This time it’s official.

 

I’ve been accepted for training by the Samaritans.  http://www.samaritans.org/

It’s a serious commitment in both time and energy:  the first training module is ten half-days in six weeks and begins in about a fortnight.  Then they start putting you to work.  You’re expected to rack up fifty-two duty shifts in a year—so one a week:  if you want to take a holiday, you have to squeeze a few more shifts in elsewhere.  There’s a second training module later in the year, and a continuing-training requirement of (I think) two half-days a year for as long as you’re a volunteer.

My initial interview process was made just a trifle more interesting by nine days without a car, and as a result I got in under the wire last Friday.  I received the email saying ‘you’re in, clear your diary’ on Saturday.

Done that.

And here’s the official notification:  I’m cutting back drastically on the blog.  No, really.  As of tonight it will NO LONGER BE DAILY.  I’m not sure what I’m cutting back to:  two days a week, maybe, plus or including KES.*

This has been coming for a while.  I know I keep saying I’m cutting back, and then I don’t.  There’s an ‘all change’ blog from a year ago January—and in fact I have cut back.  But not enough.  God** and commuting and three hellcritters take a lot of time.***

But that the blog as I have been insanely pursuing it is no longer tenable has really been written on the wall in six-foot letters of fire since the end of last year.  This is really dumb but it’s also dead common:  your spouse or partner or child or best friend has a stroke or a heart attack or is badly injured in a traffic accident or something and you go to pieces.  Peter had the stroke.  I’m knocked for six.  I’m not getting on with stuff—EBON, renting Third House—that I have to get on with.†  I want to do the Samaritans, and I think I can.  The blog is, however, ultimately, dispensable. ††

So.  It’s been real, as we used to say when turning on, tuning in and dropping out was cool.†††  And the blog has been real, in its smoke and mirrors way.  I’m hoping it will go on being real in a slightly streamlined, slightly reset mirrors and resignalled smoke way. ‡

We’ll find out.

Meanwhile . . . see you soon.‡‡  And thanks for all the fish.

* * *

* I still don’t know what happens when I reach the end of Part One.  I’ve been assuming I’m going to take a break, and I’m still assuming that, but I don’t know what having fewer Days in the Life to write may do to writing about Kes’.

Also please note I will be HAPPY to continue to post GUEST BLOGS.

** My applying to the Samaritans is God’s fault again, although the Samaritans, as they say on their opening page, are very much not a religious organisation, unlike, for example, the Street Pastors.  The funny thing is that it’s joining the SPs that has given me the confidence to try for the Samaritans—although the Samaritans have been on my radar for years.  I went through some very rough stuff when I was pretty young and spent some years in therapy, including group therapy, where you learn something of the non-judgemental listening shtick which is the Samaritans’ stock in trade—and how important having someone to talk to is.  But one of the Samaritans’ requirements is that you take an all-night shift every two or three months.  And I knew I couldn’t do that.  Then I went down with ME and volunteering for the Samaritans became as imaginary as anything Tolkien ever came up with.  Then I hit menopause and while insomnia is part of my personal package of hormonal horror . . . so is being able to get by on less sleep.  Oh.  Hmm.

And then I turned Christian and my dormant do-gooder came droolingly, rampantly, havoc-creatingly to life.  But I gravitate to the practical side of do-gooding:  handing out flipflops and cups of hot soup is practical.  But so is listening.  You may know that from having been in group therapy.  But you find it out all over again on your first pre-interview, pre-training observation night with the Street Pastors.

It wasn’t much over a month ago an ad for the Samaritans in the local paper caught my eye.  They were holding an ‘information evening’ for potential volunteers.  Yo, McKinley, said the bloke in the tatty blue jeans whom I first met 12/9/12.  This.

Oh, and the best thing about the Samaritans?  IT HAPPENS INDOORS.  YOU SIT IN A NICE WELL-APPOINTED OFFICE ON A COMFY CHAIR WITH A TEAKETTLE AT YOUR IMMEDIATE DISPOSAL. YOU’RE NOT OUT ON A STREET CORNER FREEZING YOUR BUTT OFF OR DISSOLVING IN THE FRELLING DOWNPOUR.

*** I’m also sitting here thinking about how the more I’m managing to put into my singing the more frelling shattered I am after my voice lessons.  I’d gone back to Dido’s Lament^ and Nadia said she’d like to hear it.  I’ve got like eighty times more voice than I did when I learnt it the first time and—I realise how deafeningly ridiculous this is—the volume I’m now capable of scares me.^^  Siiiiiiiiiiigh.

^ It’s interesting, this business about repertoire.  If you’ve gorblimey worked to learn something you don’t want to lose it.  You can’t keep too many things on top at once, but you can circulate.  On the face of it this is obvious.  In practise this is yet one more unexpected skill you have to learn.

^^ Remember, however, I’m still talking about making the walls rattle in Nadia’s mum’s small low-ceilinged dining room.   Not the Royal Albert Hall.

† I think I’ve done one doodle from my bottomless backlog in the last four months.  Maybe two.

†† Even if there are a lot of hours of my life I’m not going to get back that I spent writing it.

††† Which probably doesn’t actually mean ‘get stoned and stay that way forever’ although my generation in our mad youth sure thought it did.

‡ There’s another aspect to this decision:  I’m generating less blog material by the choices I’m making about how I spend my time.  There’s an awful [sic] lot about the God thing I don’t feel like trying to explain on a public blog, for example.   And while I can at least talk about the weather on Street Pastors nights, there’s an absolute black-out confidentiality requirement with the Samaritans^.  You can’t talk to anyone about what happens on a duty shift except another Samaritan.^^

^ Which, as previously observed, takes place indoors.  I suppose I could blog about the night I drop the cup of tea on the computer keyboard . . . I’d rather not be given this rich, golden opportunity. . . .

^^ And, just by the way, debriefing at the end of every shift is required.  They take care of their own.

‡‡ MY NEW WASHING MACHINE IS ARRIVING ON WEDNESDAY . . . I hope.  Let’s say it’s scheduled to arrive on Wednesday.

Nine roses

 

I bought nine roses last week.*  AND I PLANTED THE LAST TWO OF THEM TODAY.  It’s only been a WEEK.**  And I’ve already got ALL OF THEM them in the ground.***  Are you impressed?  Trust me, you should be impressed.

So I thought I’d give myself a Slightly Short Blog Day to celebrate.†  And maybe I’ll do a little work.  Or go to bed early.††  Or something.

* * *

* Hey.  I need more roses.

** I can’t remember if I told you this story or not^.  I’d ordered from a rose nursery that isn’t impossibly far from here and said I would pick them up.  When they rang me that my roses were ready I suggested to Peter that he come too and we’d go on afterward to the big public garden nearby and have a wander.  So that’s what we did.  Except that by the time we got to the big public garden . . . we were too tired.^^  So we didn’t walk around it.  Ho hum.  Life in the Slow Lane.  But I did get my roses.

^ And the Footnote Labyrinth makes trying to look back and check somewhat challenging.

^^ In my case all that frelling driving was aggravated by a long conversation I had with one of the rose-nursery proprietors about, how surprising, roses.  She was full of embarrassing information I should have known.+  I have, for example, never had any luck with the symbiotic fungus stuff that you put in the hole when you plant your rose, and it colonises the roots which then develop like crazy in all directions and your rose is very, very happy.  Except it didn’t and it wasn’t.  I thought it was another fashionable scam.  Nobody told me that root fungi don’t like blood-fish-and-bone which is the traditional rose and general perennial shrub food.  You ALWAYS put BFB in the hole you’re planting a rose in.  Not when you’re using mycorrhizal fungi.  Oh.  –So I bought some more of the frelling stuff and have used it.  Except I’ve only used about half the packet and it only keeps for about a year and it’s stupidly expensive, you wouldn’t want to waste it nooooooooooo. . . . .

+ Although we did a little mutual howling about people who don’t get it that roses are, you know, living things.  I told her a story I know I’ve told you, from when we were still at the old house and opened our garden on the National Gardens Scheme.  I had someone at least once every open day saying, your roses are amazing, how do you get your roses to be so amazing?  My roses are barely struggling along.  And I would say, well, what do you feed them?  And they would look at me blankly and say, Feed them?  FOR PITY’S SAKE, GUYS.  HOW DO YOU THINK ROSES PRODUCE ALL THOSE FLOWERS?  MAGIC?  How can anyone look at a modern, repeat-flowering rose, frelling bowed down by the weight of its flowers, not least because it’s been overbred for flower production at the expense of everything else like leaves and stems and good health, and not realise it’s going to need a little more help than scratching a hole in the ground and plonking it in??  That’s like buying a racehorse and feeding it straw.  GOOD GRIEF.

*** Well.  Mostly not in the ground.  Not in the All the Plumbing in Hampshire cottage garden.  Most of them are in pots.  I suspect I have rather good drainage, between the builder’s rubble and all the plumbing in Hampshire, but most roses that aren’t major thugs, in this garden, do better in pots, possibly just because they don’t have to fight off the thugs.  But I lost a few this wet winter that I don’t think I should have lost so . . . more pots.  A few of the new intake are in pots smaller than they’ll stay in forever . . . but they’ll do for a year or two.  Or three.  Just keep feeding them.

† Also because I took Peter to the ex-library again today and we battered our way through all the other media and went and hung out in the small dark corner where the books now live.  I found a little trove of knitting books . . . and then read one of Peter’s thrillers over tea.  During which I absent-mindedly ate a Very Nasty gluten-free pistachio cookie.  I think I object to a book so absorbing that you can eat nasty food without noticing till it’s too late.  That’s the problem with thrillers:  they make you forsake all rationality and keep turning pages.

And then I went bell ringing at Crabbiton for the second week in a row.  I haven’t been ringing, I’m too tired, and the idea of facing eighty-six bells and a ringing chamber the size of a ballroom at Forza is too much for me.  Crabbiton has six bells, and a pretty laid-back and low-level band, and I found out by accident that Wild Robert has started teaching there pretty regularly again.  So I went along last week and made bob minor possible—they generally only have four inside ringers, and bob minor requires five—and so this week they were really glad to see me.  It’s a hoot being one of the big kids.  Although Felicity had to go and wreck my feeble glow of self-satisfaction by inquiring if I wouldn’t like to make up the number at Madhatterington on Mothering Sunday.  Nooooooooooooo.

So . . . after all this febrile self indulgence . . . work would be good.

†† No!  No!  Not that!

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