Bloody Hell. Why can't workbooks write themselves?

Also... since when is it cool to get paranoid because people on cruise ships are getting a yucky stomach virus? I mean it isn't as if everyone hasn't had one at some point. It isn't as if we're talking aobu the ebola virus. Or even tuberculosis. It isn't as if these "Norwalk-like" viruses are highly dangerous killers, uncommon and/or hard to contract and spread. And it certainly isn't as if the cruise ship people could really do much about it. I can't believe anyone would actually try to sue over something like this. Also, I can't believe I'm wsting my time posting aobut this. Especially since the Cruise Ship Virus Paranoia seems to have happend a couple of months ago. I'm a bit slow on the uptake sometimes.

Right. Eleven Pages. Three articles with exercises. I realize as I fill in the appropriate slots in the table of contents that it all reads very oddly:

7 - EXERCISE 1 -- Mecca-Cola
9 - EXERCISE 2 -- Vampire Bats
11 - EXERCISE 3 -- Doctors In Trouble
12 - CARTOONS

And it occurs to me that I have a very stange job. Or maybe the job is strange only because of the way I handle it? Ah well, either way, it's odd.

Bloody Buggering Hell. I sometimes really fucking hate MS Word. But I guess, at least, I'm on page nine. Work work work.

It is nearly ten in the evening. I can't quite understand what day it is anymore. Intellectually I know it's Friday. Technically, I know I've blown the deadline for coursebooks. Truthfully, I haven't even really started them. And why can't I seem to? But I pledge this: One hour. One hour of solid work. Starting now. And maybe I can get the damned workbooks going.

I don't know why I haven't done them yet. I don't know why my mind refuses to concentrate on them. When I can scan news for hours and read other blogs and learn about really random and bizarre topics. Trends in porn of the early seventies, the evil plot to steal human foreskins and make very expensive flesh bandages with them, the life-span of a wombat.

One hour, starting at ten. One hour of real, honest work. And I'll report later. And I'll tell the truth. and I'll be v. sad if I have to say I didn't follow through.

I've just found out I've got a two week break in the end of April/beginning of May. All I can think of is how can I get a ticket to San Francisco?

But.

There's always a but.

Even if I could, in the middle of that chunk is the croquet match between St. John's and the Naval Academy in Annapolis. I am certain that even if I scraped together enough to cover a ticket to the states, I would not be able to afford cross-country domestic travel while I was there. And then there's the matter of having enough money to do minorly important things like, say eat while I am over there. And then of course the whole bit about getting a ticket hom n June. Will I have enough saved? Oh dear. But Two weeks! Two weeks in the End of April! I could leave the seventeenth and not return until the fifth of May! Oh, if only.

It seems this is becoming the "for posterity's sake" page. So be it.

Moss: I have a ticket. For the 16th of February.
Me: You're coming! I'll really see you!
Moss: I am!
Me: And you'll teach me how to play Mao!
Moss: Yes!
Me: Because of course that's the goal of the whole trip. I can't think of any other reason you'd come to France to see me.
Moss: And really, what else are two people stuck in a hotel room together gonna do?
Me: I honestly don't know.
Moss: Me neither.
Me: But... can you really play Mao with just two people?
Moss: Well... not really. You'd need three or four...
Me: Hmmm. I don't think we'll have anyone else in the room with us.
Moss: No.
Me: Whatever will we do?
Moss: I don't know.
Me: Watch TV, I expect. I don't really like to, but...
Moss: I can think of another idea, but I'm really too shy to bring it up... and I'm probably no good at it anyway...
Me: You mean chess...?

Ah, sweet February.

Whispered words of affection, plans for the near future, trust, opening up, and amazing sex. Twice.