Frank Sinatra and my nesting instinct
2002-11-22 at 10:20 a.m.

 

Sniffle.

I have a cold. Bleh. I got no sleep.

Mr Me had another dream the other night. He has cool dreams.

In this one we were sailing across a river on a very small, slow motorboat. We happened to come across this girl who was very pregnant. So we were trying to get her to shore. We got to one shore where a doctor told us she was not only pregnant but had only 5 hours to live. The antidote was on the other shore though, so we had to hot foot it over there. Except we couldn't go very fast. So we get over there and Frank Sinatra won't let us on shore. So Mr Me is trying to explain that we have to because the girl's antidote is there. Frank still won't let us on, so we have to go back to the other side to get the doctor. In our still very slow boat. The doctor comes back with us and explains the situation to Frank and he lets us land. And we all lived happily ever after.

Apparently this was a young Frank with his hat at a jaunty angle.

Don't ask me. I have no clue.

Woo. My last day at work, now I have a week off. What to do.

I'm going to indulge my nesting instincts and tidy and clean and rearrange my house. I will tie my hair up in a hankerchief and smell of bleach and lemon-scented cleaning products for a whole week. I might even bake as well. And make stew and dumplings and other warm, homely things. I will be super-duper-shiny housewife.

Or I'll play around with my computer, watch Murder She Wrote and Quincey all day, play music loudly and eat junk food.

Who can tell which way it will go? (You at the back there, stop sniggering)