I celebrated my first day back to work yesterday by forgetting all of the myriad of passcodes and secret handshakes that it takes to do my job.
This house feels so very empty without Danielle. I am used to coming home to find her snuggled up in the armchair with a bowl of something and a glass of wine, maybe a few candles lit. Now I get home and the whole place is dark, cold, quiet. Doesn't help that there is a rapist that just moved in to the neighbourhood. Apparently supposed to be serving a triple lifetime sentence but is somehow living in a halfway house with an ocean view. Every grunt and wiggle from the nighbours has me reaching for my steak knife. Maybe this is the best month to be living with a tall man. Too bad he is never home.
And of course fate would have it that the detective that was part of the team that put the infamous Balaclava Rapist in jail to begin with is living across the street from Marketa. He is a tall older gentleman with a slight Irish accent and a sweet wife. When I take M's dog out he usually strains toward their house briefly before giving in to walk with lesser mortals. Mr. T is not shy about who his favourites are.
I've been watching the Great Gatsby for three nights in a row and must conclude that it is not very good. First of all the actors are too old. And I know that sounds needlessly picky. But do not pick an all star cast of middle aged blonde people for a movie about young love and brooding, Baz Thurman.