Well, shockingly enough, all is nice and quiet here this evening. I don’t know what my landlord said to those people, but I haven’t heard boo from them since I got home. I’m sitting here, listening (quietly, of course) to the early BBC recordings of Jacqueline du Pré, having just finished Jennifer Egan’s The Keep (can’t recommend it—had some promise, but crossed the International Cheese Line). I made some delicious soup earlier this evening while listening to Nick Drake’s first album (also quietly). My floor didn’t shake; no one yelled. In short, I am feeling much, much better. If I can get through tomorrow morning without having my bed go all Exorcist on me, I’ll consider the problem dealt with.
Also, I am once again a citizen of the wonderful world of online dating. One site I was on hadn't deleted my profile when I cancelled my account, so that was easy enough to do. The other required me to fill out another questionnaire. That activity, alas, took up my writing juices for this evening.
Because I’m feeling guilty for all this self-absorbed drivel I’ve been writing lately, I’ll leave you all with this. In two weeks’ time, we should know if this country is worth the effort to try to save it or not. Oh please, oh please, oh please.