Poor Mr. Portis. How did he come to be stuck with such a hayseed?! What qualifies me to be the guardian of gentility incarnate? You may recall my track record on this point is not exactly stellar.
At any rate, I suspect he is preparing to molt, as evidenced by the fact he took one look at the cricket I laid before him this morning, then flicked it away in an expression of contempt.
On second thought, this could just as easily indicate his feelings toward me in general.
The thing is, dear reader, I need to take a break from this blog but don't DARE while we're hanging off this cliff together, wondering what merry goose chase Charles might lead us on this time.
So...please rest assured I'll try to keep you abreast of the situation. I'll try to let you know if Charles molts to the size of a wooly mammoth and exacts vengeance for the way I constantly offer him a penny for his thoughts.
I can't help it, dear reader! I know it's annoying, but he always looks so lofty, so transcendent, so beyond the things of this world! It maddens me to no end, it makes me put a death grip on my Hi Chews.
Charles, darling: if I'm forced to renounce candy, then there's simply no way.
You'll have to be enlightened without me.
As for everything else, beyond the bustle of the season, we are doing quite well around here.
By the way, I realize you don't come to Tollipop for style advice, but here's a seasonal tip I gleaned from my sister-in-law which I plan to exhaust without mercy: the wearing of leg warmers beneath boots.
When it comes to fashion, I try to set realistic expectations for myself: to dress my age without undershooting it by a mile.
Where does that leave me? It means, sadly, that Caroline gets the cat-ear hairbands all to herself, but I do think I'm safe with this conservative approach to leg warmers.
If you disagree, break it to me discreetly, darling.
Beyond that, Sophie's school volleyball season ended yesterday, bittersweetly. The sweet part is having her home again. I'll enjoy that while it lasts.
Izzy continues attempting to split the atom with her violin.
And Caroline. Sweet Caroline. She's still my little girl, my constant companion. We're reading Pride and Prejudice together at night. She comes and lays on my bed as I unfold the intricate tale, sometimes quite drowsy by the time I'm done. But she knows the story well and I read with a British accent, so it is a moment of shared pleasure between us. We keep remarking on all the walking undertaken by the ladies of that time and have good intentions to go for our own evening stroll, but so far to no avail.
It seems, perhaps, we'd be ill suited as Victorian heroines, though you can be assured I would have bungled the part long before we ever got to the matter of wandering the moors.