I haven’t written for days, partly because I’ve been working so much, and partly because, when it came down to typing something on a blank page, my mind went numb.  Why I should have something to write about in order to post on here, I don’t know, but I’ve felt quite inadequate these last few days.  My brain is either churning out sentences about fraternal equality or stuck in neutral.  Neither are happy states to be in.

I need a day off – to go out somewhere and smell the sea breeze or stand on top of a Tor on Dartmoor and feel the whole earth below me and all the expanse of air to breath.  The problem is that a day off would be beset with a nagging voice in the back of my head telling me I should be working.  It doesn’t help that Lori and I are both going through this and, try as we might, talking about work inevitably gets us down.  I have planned a night out for tomorrow: to see Cars at the Picturehouse.  It’s a pre-birthday day for Lori.  And we’ll get a day off on her birthday next Friday (strictly mandated by me, even if I have to drag her away kicking and screaming).  Things to look forward to.

It’s about baby carrots, I guess – things that get you through the next few hours of mind-numbing computer-screen staring.  Tonight’s carrot is the West Wing finale, about which I am both excited and mournful.  It’s like losing a friend.  We have two tubs of Haagan Daaz at the ready.

Speaking of Haagan Daaz, yesterday our carrot was (not literally of course) nipping to Blockbuster to buy one tub of Belgian Chocolate and one tub of Pralines & Cream and sitting cross-legged on the couch watching Gilmore Girls with two spoons and lots of cross-dipping.  The weather was glorious and we were at stalemate with our dissertations, so we indulged in a bit of ice-cream therapy and were significantly better off for it (apart from the slight nausea at the realisation of exactly how much we had consumed).  

I’m becoming a quasi-version of Mrs Hannigan, only my screechy voice would be singing about “little boys.”  I don’t know how parents put up with school holidays.  Invariably there are three or four outside the bay window, throwing stones at each other or shouting completely unintelligible phrases between spitting at the ground.  There are usually footballs or bicycles involved.  We caught two nasty little specimens of childhood trying to climb the six-foot fence behind our apartment a couple of hours ago, hooting and wailing at each other.  At least that’s what they seemed to be doing; I can’t follow what they are trying to say to each other at all (apart from the odd curse word).  I sound like a complete prude at 23, don’t I?  

On an impromptu walk on Monday night we found a small playground in one of the housing estates on the hill with swings and a bench.  Beside the bench sat a bug-bin: a red trash can with eyes and antennae.  It even had little feet.  It was like finding a tiny drop of Imagineering right here in Exwick.