Continuing Bravely

I've done some daft things in my time, but last night I didn't lock my apartment door.  In theory, it would have been possible for anyone to walk in, divest me of my shabby worldly goods, perhaps divest me personally of whatever they saw fit, and then leave.  There is a street door but that sometimes doesn't shut properly.

I think it's symptomatic of this low-level shriek of panic which accompanies me at all times.  I keep typing completely the wrong words, all the time.  The other day I was trying to remember when I got rid of my clothes-horse because I couldn't remember.  It's down in the garage with my washing drying on it.  I'm either going seriously bonkers or this is just to be expected at the uprooting of an uprooted life and the attempt to re-pot it somewhere unknown.

While I was cleaning something in my garage yesterday, the landlady turned up.  I do myself no favours because my written French isn't bad, therefore she thinks (from my emails) that I'm fluent.  She went on and on, and I interjected the odd thing.  I sort of gave up when she began talking about Churchill and De Gaulle because I have nothing worthy to say about them, in any language.

She was asking what I would be doing and where, after I left in July, and we concluded that it was tous inconnus.  Somehow it sounds a bit more exciting and adventurous in French.  Une aventure. Un nouveau chapitre, I continued bravely.

87 days.