I speak in church on Sunday. I would prefer crawling in a hole and dying, but alas there are no convenient me-sized holes. And I'm too lazy to dig my own, but no worry - a metaphorical hole is already being dug, getting deeper every second I'm not preparing. There has been much joking about how bad I can make this little speech, so as to ensure I am not asked again for a very long time, if ever.
In my effort to stave off the unpleasant task of actually writing my speech for the gallows, I have been reading. This week's selections have been The Mystery of the Yellow Room by Gaston Leroux (most famous for The Phantom of the Opera), and Carry On, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse. I enjoyed them both immensely, although I wish I had been able to focus enough on the mystery to even have a shot at guessing the solution. I was right on a few fronts, so I'll have to console myself with that. This was my first foray into Wodehouse, who I have been meaning to get to for many years and just haven't. It's not that his plots are funny, no, but the narrative voice is spectacularly amusing.
School has sprung for Paul, and aside from his tendency to cry about many things it is going swimmingly. We'll see how it goes when we start doing regular homework, my hopes are not high. We had orientation this week for Eli's preschool and it all seems promising. Lots of yuppyish suburban parents, just like us, plus one kid who's allergic to everything under the sun - milk, soy, nuts, kiwis, the list went on. Of course she has to be in our class. we'll figure it out.