Eventually I will run out of moving stuff to talk about.

Day five in the new house:

The Ikea's all built, clothes are mostly hung up and put away (on the new clothes rack, among other things, which is why I was waiting to do it); houseplants are slowly appearing in their designated zones. My nonfiction/contributor's copies shelf is organized, the yarn and knitting stuff has scored its own little shelving unit, and the only thing still in boxes is some of the stuff that goes on my desk and some old school notebooks that I don't want to get rid of, but don't really have a place for. Yesterday, took a trip to the old place to hand over some furniture to theshaggy, who is graciously adopting it, and to bring over some of the few odds and ends which are still there. My old neighbourhood smells strange, harsh now. I'm already used to the grass-and-tiger-lilies smell here, laid over old hardwood.

Not yet back into writing actual words -- putting things together here is taking, as always, longer than I expect -- but I'm starting to reboot my social life, at least: spent a few hours down at the Vic tonight with a pint and some good company, and swung over to Greg's for ice cream after; also made plans with a few people for later this week, some of whom I haven't seen in way too long. All these things are very close to home now. This is really good for my soul and maybe bad for my wallet.

I can't quite figure out where my summer's gone.

Anyways, it's late. I'm sure there's a novel I'm supposed to be reading before bed. Goodnight, tubes.