Then I had to write them a check, which all felt very weird; and now I want a drink. But I've been wanting a drink since 11.00am, and now it's 3.00pm; if I could hold off this long, I can hold off till 5.00, which is my regular sun/yard-arm interface.
In more of the same news, my arm is quite sore, actually. But I refuse to feel sorry for myself; I leave that to the cats, poor darlings, entirely surrounded by a California they can't quite reach. They are disgruntled with this state of affairs, and keep trying to change it. Sometimes they try inveiglement, sitting by the doors and looking irresistibly cute and expectant; sometimes they try a mad dash, or digging through the windows, or picking irritatedly at the insect screens. So far, Mac's made it out once, but barely beyond the doorstep before he was overwhelmed by the bigness of the world and suffered himself to be picked up and returned to his proper kingdom. This has of course not stopped him trying.
I also want to be outside all the time. I want to fling down my whitewash-brush, cry "Bother
Which is actually more or less what I have done, come to think. And I am about as unexpected, as unlikely an adventurer as Mole; I just hope I come out of it as well as he does in the end.