My hopes of escape were dashed by logistical problems. How to displace the Nomad clan, sell the present oasis & find another one (hundreds of miles to the snowy north); swapping suburban for quasi-rural; uprooting the Princess and Jr (teen and tween respectively) and throwing them into a maelstrom of newkiditis. Plus the uncertainty that any new venture presents...though weighed against current reality, not quite the leap of faith it once was.
But things work out for a reason, as we console ourselves with that rubbish.
And I seem to be bearing the death of the dream better than the Mrs...whom I might add, was rabidly against said expansion until the bubble burst.
Nonetheless, it is with renewed vitality that I attack my current reality. Don't you know? A cornered animal is the most dangerous.
Feeling less dangerous due to a nasty virus that has kicked my ass since (not so) Good Friday. On a bitches brew of anti-biotics, pain-killers, inhalers and over the counter potions; which, when added to my usual melting pot of "steady-as-she-goes-sirs", has rendered my bloodstream as if I was the corporate asshole version of Keef Richards, though my voice has been reduced to a dull croak, most reminiscent of Bob Dylan singing through a colostomy bag.
With the escape hatch sealed, and the water rising, what can a poor boy do?
Count our farking blessings and quit the bitching, for starters!