So am back in ye olde hometowne, and ye olde alma mater (but-of-course) soon-ish.
And I not just hate packing. I loathe it. And run from it like the beubonic plague or ye irritating coconuts (a.k.a abcds).
So another end and another beginning. But. As always: messy. Well it stands to reason you see: you're pushed outta the womb covered in muck and blood (yuck!). And when you die, bodily fluids ooze out and therefore the nice Hindoo (heathen) custom of plugging the nose of the dead with cotton wool.
So I was writing in McLeod a lot (in a People Tree notebook, no less. and no it was gifted to me, I didn't buy it). And I kinda hit upon a sentence (that i'm privately very proud of but will be nonchalantly dismissive of here) as I was listening to the sound of rain on the roof of Out Of The Blue in Dharamkot. The sentence, ahem, is this:
It's like yesterday again...propah downpour and tin roof an' rain drops makin' love!*
Moving on, I think kitty has found himself a forever home. I'm still not entirely convinced that it'll be the best in the long run as opposed to being permanently settled in a spacious, nice shelter.
Also Annie Hall is certainly a very big reason to go on living and laughing. Even if your partner falls asleep (sacrilege!) half an hour into it.
*in my head I hear it in a drawl (I could've written southern drawl or something accent: but I don't have much knowhow of accents and their whereabouts). and it seemed kinda, er, superfluous, therefore, to put a 'g' or a 'd'