Autumn has slipped in like a knife and now it's very bloody cold. I got extremely wet walking home but nevertheless stopped at the most unfriendly Indian (possibly) deli in the world for samosas and dahl. Actually they may not be so much unfriendly, just scared. Last time I was in there I asked what was in the samosas. They said beef and I mooed. When in doubt, moo at shopkeepers.
Mr Fixit, the man who put a new lock on my door, has fixed my tap and got all three of my radiators working, so this small imperfect space feels tolerably warm at last. I have given notice, and it no longer feels like mine. There will be packing in the near future. Tomorrow I go to look at the dream apartment on the canal near the castle in Gent. There is quite a lot of fuzzy anxiety at the moment, which takes turns with mental list-making, and quiet feral excitement.
Like Doris Day's mother, I can tell you the future's not ours to see. Well we can see parts of it, between our fingers. The rest, thankfully, is unknown. Que sera, sera.