There’s nothing like lying in bed at tw oAM to give you an existential crisis. Ours was brought to us by the bin calendar, which said tomorrow, Weds, Dec 7 was recycling.
But then we thought, no, because today was the fifth. And then we thought, did we lose a day?! And we lay awake forever trying to figure out what day we lost and how, because we were pretty sure the blog was up-to-date.
Eventually, we had the brainwave to check the calendar, and Wednesday was definitely the sixth. Huzzah! No days lost. New problem: Why is the recycling calendar wrong? If you already surmised we looked at last year’s recycling calendar, have a biscuit with your tea. Have two.
Then picture our two AM anguish as we chase down the correct schedule on the Ontario Government website. It really, really didn’t want us to find it. Or figure out which of the five available options was ours. Eventually, we found a non-government website that let us input the postal code to figure out which area was ours, and – oh frabjious day! – it was still recycling. Huzzah again!
We spent today extremely sleepy. We’re recovering with green tea before tonight’s Scottish Dance session. The calendar took us back to Nepal, and we have a lovely green tea at our elbow. We’re about to go drink it.
But first, we thought we’d give you a poem so you could appreciate how all that made us feel. Don’t worry, you haven’t lost the ability to read English. It’s just gone wobbly.
The Jabberwocky
Lewis Caroll
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Chorister at Home 