Well, we're moving to Melbourne as a sort of stop-gap measure pretty much as soon as we can get this house rented out, and that's something. Yesterday I realized that if we stay here it's just a matter of time until I go full-on Madame Bovary. Squalid and stupid as all that sort of thing is, I think loneliness and boredom are the sort of drivers that make you stop caring that it's stupid and squalid. They're poisonous.
Speaking of, I'm really enjoying how breastfeeding and the consequent 80% drop in my sex drive is giving me a sort of objective, out-of-body perspective on the whole institution of sex. It all seems so deadly important until you don't care. Incidentally I think that sort of attitude makes Madame Bovary shit more rather than less possible.
