Foreign messengers impart junctures of fading politics to me only now. This keyboard, foreign too, keeps substituting z for y, the keys being all mixed up in a German way. Still sleep for questions, it is not a bad exchange. The bulk emails have drifted into the ether, cast off like ships with split moorings, and gradually the replies trickle back, joyful excuses - apparantly everyone is getting married.
As Brown slips from his perch, still mumuring fresh about crunching credit (despite the fact that the freemarket, that bastion of neoliberalism, would - in their eyes - hopefully be referred to as a Labour ideal if not idea), it turns just as cold here. From what I can gather, prices are rising, but the temperatures drop. We have lost some fifteen or twenty degrees here and I am, each morning, reminded of how long my summer was.
Cara is away to the West, on a trial. Klaas is here with me in the Kunstschule attic as I tap away on iMac34. We are perhaps about to head to the Finanzamt to complete what I started yesterday. I am slowly becoming legal here, England now fondly remembered only trhough weblogs of army and alcohol.