Well. One of the things about being a Real Person is that you don't have much time to actually do stuff during the week, other than actual work. I'd timed it all carefully- I'd bought my train tickets home during my lunch break, and had reserved Wednesday evening for packing for the nice Bank Holiday weekend. I thought I'd wash my work clothes so they'd be drying while I was away:

This leaves the oven as the only thing in my flat that has not yet broken. So far.
Anyway, I mopped up the little sea in my kitchen as best I could and just went home yesterday. 4 hours on the train after a busy day at work were LIGHTENED by my watching of the final two episodes of the Killing (series 2). I'd not had the time to finish the series before, but I finally got round to it. WORTH IT. I think my gasps at the drama of the ending may have scared my fellow passengers a bit.
So I'm home now! It feels nice to be back, as always. And tomorrow I get EVEN OLDER, accompanied by this vague and illogical feeling of amazement I've been having every birthday since I was 18, that I cannot be so old, because I'm not quite ready, because my current age is just fine, thanks very much.
Oh, and I have a signed (by the late and fantastic Ronnie Drew) Dubliners LP!
And finally, I've had two stress dreams about learning Swedish. The first was that I was in the classroom and couldn't understand the teacher. Which is something that probably will happen, otherwise it would be SOMETHING OF A WASTE OF MONEY to book lessons. And the second was that I was at work and had to ring somebody up and speak Swedish at them (a much less likely scenario) and I did a terrible job of it. I sometimes think that my subconscious mind likes to act as a counterbalance to any joy I ever have.

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