Ah well, that's to be expected from me. I'm such a procrastinator, and a lazy, lazy one at that. I love to sleep and I love to waste time and day-dream and do nothing with my life, despite all declarations to the contrary.
Anyhow, it may be that tomorrow is a day for celebration, some would say, or just this lost moment of time, or an auditive scene I witnessed yesterday - whatever it is, it has me writing a bit again.
So yeah, yesterday... I was sent to retrieve a stepladder from my boss' neighbour. The neighbour - a lady in her forties, maybe, who lives with her mother and perhaps her son or sons - was quite polite and helpful, ready to lend the said object to my often charming boss (that is, when she doesn't scream her head off over something I or someone else did or did not do). Which didn't go over well with the mother - just when the lady neighbour was ready to pass me stepladder, a squeaky, though loud voice claim it beacause the owner of the voice wanted to hang curtains. There were sounds of a little fight, more screams, more claims on the stepladder and the reiterated affirmation of the wish to hung curtains. Then there could be heard the noises of little steps hurrying away with what was likely the object of all these negociations. I was asked to return in a quarter of an hour and blessed with an endearment term by the nice neighbour lady.
Of course I have a series of stupid, excessively romantic, impossbile notions for my life. Of course I'll wake up the same tomorrow. Why bother and why oh why keep on hoping. It's an impulse just as inexplicable and irresistible as, say, the soulmates one finds in books only. Wishful, dreamy, farway look to be inserted here.
It's ugly in Paris today. Grey and muted. Not very cold. Just another day after another day before another day.
The Chat mutters to itself - "Trop peu d'argent, trop de gueule". A statement future generations will spend many a night meditating upon.
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