Tomorrow, tomorrow, I dread you, tomorrow...

I've been packing all day, and thanks to some doubtlessly karmic timing, it looks like I'll be moving on the hottest weekend so far this summer. Which means I was also dripping unpleasantly all over everything I packed. With the exception of the always unwieldy floor lamps and of course the coffeemaker all my worldly possession are now bagged or boxed (the otherworldly possessions can find their own way to the east end, and if not I'm sure we’ll be leaving a Hansel and Gretelesque trail of sweat in our wake tomorrow). I'm perversely anticipating the exertion. Sure, I work out, but the results aren’t so immediately visible – it’s not like after an intense kickboxing session all the fat I burned is piled in a corner of the room instead of on my thighs. I have a dynamic helping duo – their dynamism a result of their food allergies (gluten for one, lactose for the other), so this will be the first time I move sans pizza and beer. Instead it’ll be punch and pie. And then fireworks, though they’re actually part of the international competition, not in honour of me (not like that’ll stop me from pretending). Another cold shower beckons, to rid myself of sweat and grime for at least a few hours (and to be a wee bit poetic and circular, since when I moved in here the hot water wasn’t working so all I could take were cold showers). The next post will be written from new co-ordinates, which will surely have a remarkable effect on my perspicacity, and might even include “aren’t you glad you weren’t us?” pictures from the move…