It's foggy and damp in Stratford today, with wind and rain in the forecast. Not chilly, though; the overnight low is supposed to be 19 degrees Celsius. That means an unpleasantly sticky day with no relief at night despite the rain. Crap.
My basement smells musty -- diagnostic sign of a damp summer. Not a lot I can do about that.
With September approaching like the noon freight, I'm neck-deep in preparations for the onset of choir season. The library-cum-music room is cluttered with file boxes full of carefully sorted sheet music and the study is crowded with copies of the Mass In Time of War by Joseph Haydn that need bar numbers inserted. Each score is 76 pages long, and each page has three staves of music ... I can finish a score in 15 minutes flat, but I've had practice. The five people to whom I farmed out 10 copies each will have to work up to that speed.
Elder Brother phoned this morning to ask what I want for my birthday. "Nothing," I said; at this point in my life, any material item that enters the house, however beautiful or lovingly chosen, is more of a problem than a solution. Such a First World privilege situation to find myself in! But it's madness -- and wasteful madness, at that -- to declutter with one hand while hauling in stuff with the other.
I wish I could declutter my compulsive habit of looking at real estate advertisements. I'm pretty sure I do it because I don't know how long I can or should stay in this house, and because I don't feel rooted in Stratford. Due to daily perusal of on-line listings, I can tell you almost precisely what a two-bedroom condo flat or a three-bedroom condo row house costs in Ottawa or London (Ontario), plus or minus ten percent. Clearly, my subconscious mind is heavily preoccupied with my housing situation, like a squirrel that can't stop chewing on wiring in the attic.