Sunday evening means Skyping the family and I talk to them about the cats. Dad’s football team lost (again) and my parents are just back from watching it, and my sister is hiding whatever more interesting despair she might be feeling from my prying eyes.
There isn’t a lot to report. R’s well. I’m fine. The baby’s fine. Work is work is work. It’s hot and humid. I can’t convey just how the humidity saps you of your energy, your interest in life, your capacity to even breathe properly. Hell, once it finally passes and winter sinks its claws in, I won’t be able to properly remember it myself.
Mum and Dad have decided that they are going to pay for the baby’s pram. The pram is one more thing on a dauntingly long list of things I need to organize, but at least the money for it is going to come from somewhere other than me and R. I’ve seen the prices on those things, particularly the new ones. We consider briefly how the hell, exactly, they’re going to get the money to me, cannot figure it out and put it off for another day.
And thus, the cats, a perfectly awesome subject.
Lyssays 