There’s a big red tent on the lawn and it’s not because I’m turning 40 (because there are still a pre-teen’s worth of years before I’m that age). We’re the talk of the neighbourhood, probably; we’re the only big red thing going on at the moment. It’s raining and the eaves are being replaced. I would have personally chosen yesterday when it was 26°C in the sun, but I’m no contractor. Really I’m glad it’s happening at all; was beginning to worry about our deposit after work was supposed to begin on Tuesday. These guys seem to have sort of come through so far. Unlike my tax refund, which I’ve been waiting nearly two months for now. I am OLD.
I’ve been reading The Help, so it’s all I can do to not type in thick, southern, 1960s-esque colloquialism right now. What a great book. I always choose the worst books to quit half way through before I collapse of boredom (The Brother Karamazov) to find newer books that are actually interesting. Was there a threshold in writers’ history where it became a rule that you could no longer be ridiculously boring, or was it just commonplace that all classical authors had no obligation to hold the reader’s interest for more than 10 seconds at a time because they were generally male and that meant it was acceptable? I’m leaning toward the latter, because I’ve read some lame books written recently, but almost all the books I’ve tried to get into that I’ve been told I should read are just bloody boring all over.
Anyway, I haven’t been writing much and I felt I should say something. I will get back into the swing of things. Springtime is so refreshing and uplifting, even on this rainy day. Hang those who enjoy winter, hang Miklos! (Please don’t hang him.)
