On the first of May, an email from Mark: Pee-Wee, How’re things? How’s the new library? I’m staying another two weeks, should be back on the seventeenth. Hope you’re looking after yourself. M He didn’t say: hope you don’t mind, or bad news. So I don’t care he’s away longer. I can’t say I’m happy but I’m not unhappy. I’m working. Checking emails. I get hundreds a day. Updating, subscribing, indexing. I’m dragging myself through the day to the time I can be with BJ. I’ve stopped wearing my watch. I was looking at it too often. The library relocation has gone better than I envisaged. I project-managed every wrinkle out of it and I’m feeling surplus. Maybe I should stand outside the goods lift and see if someone wants to find me a new home. I’ve stayed at BJ’s place the last five nights. I take the tram in to work from Northcote, it’s a faster trip and a different view. I’ve been home to rotate my clothes, check the mail, feed Mrs Dalloway, empty her litter tray.
