Figaro and I are in the interview process for a residential school in some insanely environmentally cutting edge slice of Belgium - his visa is running out, my job is going to start sucking unbearably in eight days, and I've decided it's quixotic (I wonder if I'm using that adjective appropriately here - missed Don Quixote from third year when I was off in Italy absorbing the Renaissance and sort of figured I'd read that only when I'd learnt Spanish, which obviously I haven't done yet; two years in television media and I can hardly even speak English anymore) to apply for classy-type jobs when I'm not available for an interview in which my interlocutor can see my titties.
So I have a general feeling that soon things are going to get flustered, busy and painful any day now (especially considering I have to go to the West Coast for as long as possible before moving to Europe) which made it very easy to enjoy the relaxed pace of this weekend. Relaxed - hah, actually - I had a lot to do and I got an awful lot done, and drank an awful lot too. But it felt relaxing. I think I'm getting my ability to relax in the face of overwhelmingly stressful events back, and just in the nick of fucking time, I'll tell you that. No other fit-to-print news, besides that Figaro figured out eggplant slices dipped in ground oats instead of bread crumbs before being fried are PHENOMENAL. I recommend it.
Upwards and onwards.