Sunday Service III

I have a bed.  No more the Kafka-esque inelegance, rolling about on a mattress trying to get up.  I celebrated one final time before the bed arrived by rolling back and forth several times, almost as far as my shoulders, and then letting impetus roll me to my feet.  Lovely new friend M sold me his bed and put it together for me - I think this technically means he no longer has a bed.  Ah well.

I've been down to the murdery cellar tonight looking for something to put my computer on.  It's a steam-driven clunky affair with a separate tower, which strikes me as a bit unnecessary these days.  There are several large unlocked cupboards down there, full of what my dad would call old tut.  I kind of wanted a desk I saw but there isn't really room up here and I would have done myself a proper mischief getting it up the four flights of stairs.  As if in league with the murderers, the lights went off every time I was halfway between switches, or was in the middle of lifting something.  Have settled for a sub-IKEA smallish shelf unit, which should do the trick.  And I only did myself a partial mischief.

Tomorrow I have to present myself to the police.  This is all part of the treacly process of registering with one's Commune.  I will be retired by the time it's all done.