Well, it’s all go here in the East Coast’s version of Stepford (my fellow blogger MTFF lives in the West Coast’s). I did dusting today in preparation for our pre-Halloween supper party tomorrow, and managed to finish the ironing which has been on top of the washing machine for two weeks. (All of you who came here for tales of fashion-related New York glamour may leave now.)
Our Halloween pumpkins are carved and they would have been in position on the front door step, looking suitably scary, but for the ravening local wildlife which took a large chunk out of the bat pumpkin overnight.
We brought them indoors for safety this evening, only to discover a few hours later that the puppy had chewed out the bat’s eyes. There’s obviously some Sophoclean metaphor to be drawn from this but frankly I can’t be arsed to work it out.
I’m still ploughing through the Gmail inbox of hell. I managed to clear out the LLG one last week, which was relatively simple as I only had 452 unread emails and most of them were press releases pushing soap powder, erotic chocolate, and designer collaborations thought up by FMCG marketing gurus with giant cheque books and dumbass clients. I have created a folder called ‘Lunatic Story Pitches’, the contents of which I shall no doubt regale you all with one day.
Unfortunately I have 958 unread emails in my work Gmail account which is more daunting, as not only do they have to be read but most of them require some kind of action to be taken. I’m quite surprised that I have any friends left, given that the chances of my replying to their email, let alone writing one off my own bat, before I have dealt with the work backlog, is less than zero right now.
I’m also planning England: The Return. It’s not a permanent one, thank Christ, but I am flying back for six weeks or so before/over Christmas to finish The Great Attic Clearance™, remove my mother from the iron grip of divorce-related neurosis, drive my sister to the point of insanity by spreading my possessions over all surfaces of her one bedroom flat, acquire some more parking tickets for my father’s car, and prod the faithful hound.