I suppose I ought to get out of my chair and frantically tidy up the house for the real estate agent who's dropping by this morning. Then again, there's nothing I can do about the fact that we need a new roof, so I might as well let myself enjoy this hot coffee. I am hopeful that the agent's visit will be the penultimate step in the "will they make an offer?" drama that's been keeping us up at nights. But who knows? I've never sold a house before; it's all a mystery to me.
I've been busily cooking for boys, weeding in the garden, accumulating dorm-room supplies, mowing grass between raindrops, and reading about crime in Georgian England. Did you know that "impersonating an Egyptian" (i.e., a gypsy) was a capital offense? So were "cutting down an ornamental shrub" and "appearing on a high-road with a sooty face." I am learning a lot from this Hughes book.
Yesterday I asked the boys (two of the least criminal types you'd ever hope to meet) whether they agreed with the author's generalization that "crime is, was, and always will be a young man's trade." They thought for a moment and then said yes.