FedEx

Waiting for the FedEx man, hence blogging.

I am full of the domestic hum of content, new window, new kitchen counters, new glass for a broken pane, even a new toaster, black and steel, full of Teutonic rigour and packed in cardboard, not polystyrene. Small advances make me happy. I have cut the two piece dado rail for the hall on my trusty chop saw and made a picnic in an attempt to drag Stefan into the outer world. (He has a New Tripod, and that makes him happy.)

I am not ambitious, at all. There is a book in the loo which contains among other things, advice on organisation, business concerns and general efficiency. I read it - well, it is print, isn't it! - but it doesn't acknowledge any of the reasons I do things, and that makes me curious. I can't believe I am at the far left of these things, I have been quite good at making money, but I can't whip myself into a froth of time management as these people as deadly seriously advising. It is of course all from a certain stream of advice, opposite the la-la extreme of do-what-you-love which has been so bad for women of a certain age and condemned them to unreliable cars, flaky men and tie-dye.

I have seen a backlash, investment bankers who don't want to become aromatherapists, so maybe that toxic tide has turned, and the next generation could be more realistic about what they want to study, do and achieve instead of rushing to a name college or high-profile profession which maybe doesn't suit them. Or contrarywise, they might come to realise that there are far grander horizons and lope along quite easily to them because they have that capacity, not because it is expected. Colin Powell was acid about fast-track kids in an AARP article, and I can only agree. It is unlovely to put a racehorse to the plough, and just as offensive to gussy-up a mule - what's that you said, Black Mammy?

Off to China Camp to picnic - Stefan is bringing his tripod, so he can pat it.