“The best thing and the worst thing about the place”
That was the much coveted accolade held by Crazy Ann in the rural town I once lived.
Ann didn’t divide people so much as divide each person. Among her many simultaneously endearing/unnerving habits was calling into the office unannounced, doing the sign of the cross on you with her eyes before announcing the state of your energy levels. She had an uncanny knack for correctly gauging mine somewhere just above ground level. Or, in my arse, as she delicately put it, while aiming her foot directly at it. It frequently did the trick.
In the unlikely event of her popping in here with her size nine yards, I’ve enlisted the help of you obliging dot comrades to administer a proverbial boot up my behind in a bid to jump-start my blogging battery. It’s on the blink. Was that too many Bs? Hang on, no, don’t answer that. But please do answer whatever questions below happen to tickle your keyboard.
*Morag scuttles forward with the book*
I’ve been obsessed with the lack of all of the above at one time or another. It made me hungry. So, food. No wait, a sport – extreme eating.
Sorry, you lost me at ‘secure’.
Assume I cannot suspend enough disbelief to imagine that I would ever be walking in a park.
Yes. It would involve being financially secure. My partner is ready to take it to the next level – we’re going back to the Credit Union next week. I would be willing to make the repayments on time.
I look to the future with anxiety about my anticipation. How much anticipation is too little? How much anxiety too much? A delicate balancing act.