Dreams of Escape

Nowhere near Portobello.

Glued to the news, I didn't spend any time in the garden before work--a terrible mistake as it was warm and sunny. When I finally got outside at lunch time, I had to take off my fleece and my raincoat. I was there when B.A. turned up after his hospital adventure. He had enjoyed a nice walk around the Stockbridge area after his MRI and X-ray, which meant any further walk would not have been government -mandated. 

Unfortunately I did not have any walk at all, for my one assignment yesterday was to find out all about the new pontifical commission on the female diaconate and it took a long time. There are twelve people on the commission, so there was much writing of emails, sending of text messages, and grappling with autobiographies written in various languages. My head began to pound, so I recruited a French-speaking colleague to help me out and then went outside to root up more dandelions. (I'm at a particularly tricky patch now. The lawn now looks like we have a serious mole problem.) Then I returned to incorporate my kindly colleague's findings.  

Is that...? Yes, it is. Częstochowa.

During supper we finished watching Radio Days, and my stomach began to ache. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the mystery of why we need another pontifical commission on something St. John Paul II settled, or the mystery of what the last pontifical commission determined. Maybe it was the doubt that my emails would be answered, or the knowledge that at least one commission member had no idea she'd been appointed until the first journalist got in touch. It could have been the peanut butter cookies I ate earlier in the afternoon, or it could have been the stress of captivity. It might also have been from the stress of B.A. being sad because the next day he'd be on furlough and unable to work. 

The government promising to pay 80% of the salaries of people on furlough frightens me very much because it means we and subsequent generations are all going to have to pay it back in taxes.   

Toronto. This is the outline of my Grandma.

Anyway, my poor tum ached so much, I cut my evening chat with my parents short and went to bed with a hot water bottle. It still aches now, but not as much.

At this point I think going to a polski sklep and getting my fermented rye water counts as necessary for my mental health. That's my dream of escape, by the way. You know you're living in a dystopia when  your idea of a blissful holiday is getting on the Rough Bus and going to an ethnic grocery store in a notorious slum. 

Of course, there's a chance that particular shop won't have what I need, and then I might get on the next Rough Bus and go all the way to the super-fancy polski sklep near the

University of Wrocław Polish for Foreigners

university.  The daring! The excitement! If challenged by police, I will address them in Polish; I have a foreign accent anyway. Clearly I picked it up from the American Peace Corps lady who taught me English as a child... 

Well, I think I will deal with my sore tummy by going back out to the lawn now. Possibly it is time to reintroduce yogurt to my diet, too, swear off sugar (yet again) and overcome B.A.'s objections to Polish sauerkraut. 

Here are some nice photographs of Abroad.