Be a picker, or be picked
We received word, late last evening, that the work is almost complete. In fact, if we wanted to load a truck, we could also unload at the other end. Move in, if you prefer.
Cue increased stress level. Enough to wake me, and wake the wife… She notices when my sleep pattern dissolves. Guess I get “restless”. Anyhow, my good intentions at dawn didn’t actually lead to my contacting a mover; still too soon, and cold.
Maybe we should do this gradually; go and camp out for a couple of weeks. Check if life in a sleeping bag works in winter. I’m not proposing a tent. There’s a perfectly good, empty house available.
Segue to politics. Our esteemed national leader has a new communication officer. He averages about one a year. Cannon fodder?
The wanna-be-in-waiting from Central Nova appoints judges as part of his duties; as long as you can include “personal friend” in your resumé, getting one of those $300K appointments is statistically easier. I am so tired of this gang…
Watched another episode of Canadian Pickers this afternoon. Can’t help thinking that their job looks like good fun. Go around in a van, buying other people’s stuff. Usually stuff with a history. Actually, no; I’d fill my available space in a matter of hours, and then I’d have to change career paths. Too old for that noise.
Maybe they’d like to drop by and pick here, as an alternate strategy. Then I could dicker for a better price, or decide to not sell my treasure trove. The dog could put in a cameo appearance. Hey guys, stop on by.
