Our lively neighbor the Gaul has strange ideas about what renters know of previous renters at that address.
Let me explain, in preface, that Thursday is the marathon day. Of teaching for Jonathan, and child care for me. He leaves at 7:30 am, teaches five classes, and gets back at 7:30 at night. I tend to save up errands for Thursdays, as Tristram gets awfully bored sitting around the apartment with me all day, and I get sick of reading Babybug over and over and over.
So, we went to the grocery store and the pharmacy and the post office, and along the way we bought an umbrella since it started raining on us. At the post office, I took back the package that, as far as I can tell, the previous tenant shipped to himself when he went home to Brazil but failed to address correctly. I mistakenly signed for it when the mailman showed up at the door while Tristram was fussing--it seems I cannot summon a single word of French when the French-speaking world unexpectedly shows up at my door, so I just smiled and signed. Then I realized I had committed a federal crime. So at the post office, the clerk demanded that I stay while he looked up the forwarding address this Mr. Gomes had registered, "in case the address wasn't correct." Of course it was not there, or was incomplete, or some such problem. So he started to hand the package back to me, then realized that wouldn't work, mumbled something about checking in the back, and went and got the other package I had come to pick up. It was labeled "cumbersome," but was not. It was a packet of forwarded mail from my parents.
Tristram had a record dinner tonight--400 grams of food (almost a pound, for those who don't yet think in metric). Hopefully that means he will sleep well tonight.
I want to stay because the metric system is so much better than English measurement.
I want to leave because it's hard to sleep--the bed is too hard, and I don't like the European system of sleeping under just a comforter that goes inside a washable sheet. Sometimes the comforter is too hot, but it's too cold to just throw it off and sleep without covers. So I often end up sleeping under the blanket that some previous tenant stole from Egypt Air.
Let me explain, in preface, that Thursday is the marathon day. Of teaching for Jonathan, and child care for me. He leaves at 7:30 am, teaches five classes, and gets back at 7:30 at night. I tend to save up errands for Thursdays, as Tristram gets awfully bored sitting around the apartment with me all day, and I get sick of reading Babybug over and over and over.
So, we went to the grocery store and the pharmacy and the post office, and along the way we bought an umbrella since it started raining on us. At the post office, I took back the package that, as far as I can tell, the previous tenant shipped to himself when he went home to Brazil but failed to address correctly. I mistakenly signed for it when the mailman showed up at the door while Tristram was fussing--it seems I cannot summon a single word of French when the French-speaking world unexpectedly shows up at my door, so I just smiled and signed. Then I realized I had committed a federal crime. So at the post office, the clerk demanded that I stay while he looked up the forwarding address this Mr. Gomes had registered, "in case the address wasn't correct." Of course it was not there, or was incomplete, or some such problem. So he started to hand the package back to me, then realized that wouldn't work, mumbled something about checking in the back, and went and got the other package I had come to pick up. It was labeled "cumbersome," but was not. It was a packet of forwarded mail from my parents.
Tristram had a record dinner tonight--400 grams of food (almost a pound, for those who don't yet think in metric). Hopefully that means he will sleep well tonight.
I want to stay because the metric system is so much better than English measurement.
I want to leave because it's hard to sleep--the bed is too hard, and I don't like the European system of sleeping under just a comforter that goes inside a washable sheet. Sometimes the comforter is too hot, but it's too cold to just throw it off and sleep without covers. So I often end up sleeping under the blanket that some previous tenant stole from Egypt Air.
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