It's all a bit rushed

I'm flailing madly at a to-do list as long as someone's arm and although it's shrinking at one end, the other end keeps growing, a bit like the blanket in the prison.

I have a loaf of bread rising, though, because we've finally tackled the kitchen (and now Rob has some idea of what's involved before he can come home and say "Oh, that looks nice!" so I'll appreciate that more in future) and I think the Christmas-shopping-for-children is almost completed. I enjoy giving things to Linnea's friends almost as much as she does, but it may bankrupt us, though some sibling-groups are getting joint presents, because we are meeeeeeeeeean.

The singularly ill-informed person on a mailing list is being educated by people who are not me, so that's nice.

Doom, gloom, oil go boom

I'm reading - quickly, because it's overdue back at the library - "Eat your heart out" by Felicity Lawrence, she of "Not on the label" fame. And it has strengthened my resolve not to turn back to the supermarkets in this time of economic crisis. The True Food marketeers will no doubt be pleased.

Unlike most books on food and evil megacorps selling us unhealthy things and inorganic rock-based farming and so on, this one hasn't made me want to eat six beefburgers in a row. They usually do. One of them even made me want to drink Coke, which I loathe.

(Linnea is lying quietly awake in bed; she's ok, she says, and she doesn't want me with her, she says, but she's awake. I think we wont' be at art tomorrow morning).