The moving process continues apace, as Arminda strikes a blow for all my friends when she declares the staircase unnavigable. This is going to be expensive, this relocation thing. Meanwhile, I connected with my Irish-washerwoman roots by scrubbing the kitchen floor by hand. (And I ain’t done yet; this is no ordinary floor grime, and I am no ordinary quarter-Mick. Mickette. Mickeen? Leave it.) In other news, found a store that sells not only copies of the magazine my grandmother’s in this month but those wax-bottle syrup candies. Remember those? Imagine, there was a time when entire lines of sweets could be predicated on the fact that kids will put just about anything in their mouths, including paraffin.

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