Call me queer, but I just want the simple life that every fucking peasant seems to be allowed.
But I do lose my temper when I've decided I have to do something the hard way, the decision is final, and I somehow feel that I didn't get all the facts presented to me when the only thing to do was to make the decision.
Which might be something like what brings us to test our lungs out for the first time. Which would make me regret for a considerable period of time the fact that I was lying in a cot--for that came of my own decision--and see the people who are trying to console me with soft toys as being cruelly unsympathetic, for many in their hearts were thinking, "he just wants to go back inside."
No, my dear mother was giving me signs that I had overstayed my welcome, which no-one could say she was mastery of.
But astrologists will look at the gravitational forces acting on us, the data for which they'll need to borrow from astronomers.
And I'm moving restlessly around the cot thinking, 'haven't you forgotten something about gravity?'
'Something to do with mathematicians?'
I obviously didn't have the words, but who's to say that with one look from the man who had much of the theory didn't bring that thought between us?
But no matter, I've asked the question now.
I don't have the art of making a fire. This is obviously a lost art, without the losing of which some might postulate that we could not have left the nomadic life.
What could be better than not having to wash the dishes?
No longer caring much for the thrills of modern technology, I no longer care to torture myself to do things I do not enjoy, such as baking. I seem to have a knack for it, so it only goes to show that not everything we're good at is something that it makes sense for us to do.
Doing something as a token might require us to explain the history of the inscription on the token, which has nothing to do with food which we might think can be made with a will in a town nestled amongst farms with nothing that could be called modern technology at all.
And who's going to wash the dishes?
Well, the last batch of bread I made might equally have been used to make lovely buns. I very much doubt it will be the last batch I make, but with this editing I think I might be finding the middle ground between the skills which can only be useful if I insist on making bread with computer controlled robots, and the skills which have allowed me to keep a home in a condition that no woman would critique if she hasn't spent too much time watching reality tv in which men, effectively, are taught to make bread as a rite of passage.