I've been faithful

to the wee diary book for a week now, and I like the practice. But what I notice is that I can't think of what to write, and then I start to write and then POOF the spaces are filled up. And no backspacing.

My car is all nimble, and in it and with it I'm all nimble. I went to ikea today to get some outside furniture, certain that it would disappear seasonally if I waited. I wasn't sure if the chaise would fit in my car, and in fact, in the box, it didn't. But taking B's creative persistence about these things, and what F taught me about tying things down so they don't flap about, I ended up removing the chaise from the box, levering it and propping it up at an angle with two other boxes, and securing it with my kayak strap to the front passenger seat so it didn't whack my head off. And then I proceeded to shove six folding chairs, a folding table and several armloads of towels, sheets, pillows, a duvet etc. into the space. Then ably hopped up and reaffixed the bike rack to the roof, because it would have become a trajectory in that mess.

When I got home, first I ran off to give K a cheque for my new place I'm renting. Then I steeled myself with some fruit berry candies and managed to wrassle all of the furniture upstairs, hyperactive elevator doors be damned.

In the bath, I was reading Heather Malick, whose vitriol can run away with itself but who is often caustically funny. This is what I wanted to fit in the wee diary:

Trust me to enshallow my love. But I fell in love with France because of the sunlight hitting the Seine in a certain way as I sat at a café drinking table wine. As usual, I qualified my love and this is why I am not what they call a "fun" person. Perhaps the sun is glinting off the corpses of the two hundred Algerians tied up and dumped in the Seine to drwon in the riots of 1961, I thought. But I still fell in love.