W--k

Work is out of bloody control. I am expected, for what amounts to a pittance, to put in hours that a Siberian salve-labourer would object to. Actually, I am not really expected to do so; I was just wisely hired by people who suspected I was the sort of person to do the job, whatever it takes. "Work ethic" is, I believe, the euphemism. Middle-class drone-mindedness is rather more accurate. Urgh. And yet, am I dissatisfied? Not truly, so deep runs my middle-class streak. My job is quite challenging, and in a not always expected way, fairly noble. Noble? Well, ethical. I mean, we do good things for vulnerable people. Is that noble? I am not convinced nobility is a characteristic to aspire to.

In other news, my bicycle already needs a tune-up. Canadian Tire, the purveyor of said vehicle, has been working on it since Sunday. Apparently this is still not sufficient time in which to check its gears. Chris, the youth to whom I delivered my faulty conveyance, had a certain not unattractive surliness which precluded excessive questioning. I meekly accepted his vague assurances that a day or two would yield results. The more fool me.

More extaordinarily, we, that is my spouse and I, seem to be playing reluctant host to at least one mouse. Yes, you read correctly. Never in my life have I encountered such a thing, and now, all of a moment, I am housemates with one. I say at least one, because, though I have yet to see it in the flesh, I have T's reports of multiple sightings, in one particular spleen-crimping case where the offending rodent ran in swift flight from our kitchen counter to disapear through one of the burners on our stove and take refuge in the innards of the oven. The prospect of finding a fully-cooked mouse perched on my next tofu-meatloaf causes some dismay. Yatsu, of course, is currently nodding his head in smug vindication, having heard suspicious rustlings on the final night of his stay chez nous. Yatsu, my apologies are manifold, should I have sniffed in wounded denial. T, embracing his heritage, has slipped into battle-mode, deploying a sonar device which emits an inaudible sound hated by mice, as well as glue-traps, diabolical inventions that lure the quarry to a pad of super-glue from which it can never escape, there to be scooped up and disposed of by the victor. These innovations T has adorned with tasty niblets of cracker and peanut-butter, and already one bait has successfully yielded prey. Fortunately, I was nowehere nearby to witness its disposal, however I can't honestly say I experience too much pity on its account. It now remains to see if it was the only offender, or if, in fact, its entrapment is followed by that of comrades. I am hoping not; one mouse is exceedingly less objectionable than a battalion thereof. I suspect - and hope - and will encourage all prospective visitors to join me in this inclination - that this represents the end of our pestilence. Updates will follow. (Is it only me, or do I detect a trend of myself waging war against the animal kingdom?)

I am to be found presently at my desk at work, sipping 12-year old scotch from a bottle of Glenfiddich I keep stashed in a drawer for after-hour solace....