I am grateful, I guess. Sure, it’s nice being here in the suburbs where things are comfortable. My living situations, while never outright dangerous, have been rather strange for the past seven years – if not moldy, then at least far too collegiate. Full of bros.

This morning, overwhelmed by the comforts of home, my gratitude pendulum swung far to the grateful end of things, so much that,  while I was doing chores and writing, my inner monologue got quite loud. If Anastasia Steele’s is a goddess, mine is a bedraggled Cockney orphan taken off the streets by kindly barristers.*

“Wossat? Where’s the coin-place for the laundry, eh? Seems to be nuffink, I can see. Do I pay the lady at the window, then?… It’s free, eh? I’ll be jiggered. Well leastaways I’ve got to dig out my own laundry powder – Wossat? A whole pile of it ‘ere, all wivvout fragrances? Dead chuffed.”

“Ye mean, ye can leave yer laptop out on the porch while ye get more coffee, and don’t nobody feck wiv it or nuffink? It’ll just be right there when ye get back?”

“And that dog’s me own dog, then? Cuddled up near me feet? Wowee, mum.”

That’s all.

* If you want to picture it, picture Michelle Bohacek dressed up for Halloween.


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