His nibs is relieved that I’m not doing my usual last minute thing.
Everything’s packed except the notebooks, pens and reading material. I always pack too many notebooks (well, I need a blank notebook for trip notes, one for note-notes, one for to-do thoughts and lists, one for what-will-I-do-with-myself-when-we-get-home plans).
And I tend to pack too many books ’cause I don’t know if I’ll be wanting to read mysteries or history or Middlemarch or self-awareness or Dalai Lama or …
Auntie K shows up tomorrow afternoon and the plan is for his nibs to help her lug all her stuff down here and then for them to meet up with me and we’ll swop tools for her boyz (picked up from my dad’s workshop yesterday) from my Mini to her car trunk. Following that chore, she gets the grande tour of the book stacks. Then she comes back here and settles in.
A walk down hill to dinner at Firenze By Night (a first for all of us) and then we’ll tuck under the covers while visions of sugar plums and all that.
Thursday morning we kiss the cat (if we can drag her out from under the bed), wave bye-bye and head off to the airport in the shuttle.
When we get back, The Book pops up to the top of the priority list.
My clear-the-house sort-the-books organize-the-bookmarks procrastinating projects will be hobbled and put out to pasture.
Onward and upward.
Really.