7 July - Wednesday morning
Derek and Nick got in just before supper last night. Nick's nothing but a kid. Well, not really, but any guy under 25 is a "kid" to a woman of my maturity - just like a 16-yr-old girl is really going on 30 and a 16 yr-old-boy is going on 12. Some guys couldn't make it to 20 if they lived to be 100. Unlike our precept, who I suspect went from 0 to 40 in one fell swoop.
I don't know what to make of Nick - nice enough looking in a short, body-builder sort of way. Still a pinch of naval spit & polish in his batter. He doesn't want to be here. When I shook his hand I got nothing that I could make sense of. I'll write more on him in a few days - I need to size him up. In short, I have no real 1st impression of him other than "short kid," which isn't fair.
Little wonder - my brain is mush. I've been plugging away on that sun spot / ghostly apparition thing. Whoever thought up that one has about as much sense as a crawdad simmering in Grandma's gumbo. Lordy, if that's a sample of Legacy intelligence, Satan's sure to win. (I hope they never read this journal - but I'm right, if this is a sample.) The Control Room looks like it's been TP'd - I've used 3 boxes of wide-carriage printer paper for the correlations & am nearly deaf from the clacking of that damned, jumped-up typewriter. Maybe I can get Derek to call London & put a stop to it as a waste of valuable resources. My time would be better spent picking fleas off the cat, which wouldn't be that hard - she's loaded! Lord only knows what rat hole she's been in. Guess who'll get the flea dip job? Me - old sheep-dip, share-cropper's granddaughter, Alex Moreau.
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