Over the last six weeks, I have moved every book and bookcase in the house, some of them twice. I can’t honestly say it had to be done, except of course the part where the books and their shelves got dusted and cleaned, but the work burned off a fuckton of stress that manifested itself in an inability to sit still. And now the house is substantially reoriented, and more logically configured for life on my own.

I am now deep into the last appendix to the Afghanistan book, and one more day with no interruptions will see it done.

I’m still not cooking, however. At best, I heat stuff up and slice fruit and veg into pieces that I can eat with my fingers while reading. So yesterday I hit the frozen food section at Sobey’s for a pile of microwaveable “civvy MREs”, and last night I supped on a nuked lasagne-for-one with a glass of actual red wine.

One glass was quite enough, for which much thanks The possibility that I might dive headfirst into the bottle has been drifting about my mind a lot lately, but so far I’m finding that a beer, or one small snort, and now one glass of vino, is all I want. But I can feel my on-board, built-in, personal watchdog paying very close attention.