Laugardagur til þynnku og C-vítamíns

Bara svona skemmtileg saga.

In Paris they warn you before cutting off the water, but out in Normandy you’re just supposed to know. You’re also supposed to be prepared, and it’s this last part that gets me every time. Still, though, I try to make do. A saucepan of chicken broth will do for shaving, and in a pinch I can always find something to pour into the toilet tank: orange juice, milk, a lesser champagne. If I really got hard up, I suppose I could hike through the woods and bathe in the river, though it’s never quite come to that.

Most often, our water is shut off because of some reconstruction project, either in our village or in the next one over. A hole is dug, a pipe is replaced, and within a few hours things are back to normal. The mystery is that it’s so perfectly timed to my schedule. This is to say that the tap dries up at the exact moment I roll out of bed, which is usually between ten and ten-thirty. For me this is early, but for Hugh and most of our neighbors it’s something closer to midday. What they do at 6 A.M. is anyone’s guess. I only know that they’re incredibly self-righteous about it, and talk about the dawn as if it’s a personal reward, bestowed on account of their great virtue.

Í gær fórum í á pókermót á Solbakken og ég var fyrstur til að detta út. Tapaði þar hundraðkalli, en fékk pela af Tópas í skammarverðlaun. Sárabótin fyrir að vera gaurinn sem allir aðrir tala um þegar þeir segja ,,ég er allvega ekki svona lélegur." Það var reyndar mjög svínslegt hvernig ég var tekinn út.. var með ágætis hendur en melurinn á vinstri hönd var alltaf aðeins hærri.

Gleymdi töskunni minni.

Á morgun ætla ég að reyna að elda lasanja. Ég hef aldrei gert það áður, aldrei. Þetta verður forvitnilegt.

..og ég var að taka eftir þessum vélaskrifum mínum hérna fyrir neðan. Skrýtið. En meikaði eflaust sens fyrir mér þegar ég kom heim í nótt. Lestirnar kannske? Annars er það ekki mitt að ráða í skrif fullabjössa.

-b.