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This is my LAST week of work, after three and a half years in this place. Ordinarily I’d be winning a gold medal in the Olympic Slack-athlon, but there’s no rest for the wicked. Or the freaky, evidently: they’re out in droves. Just now, one of my coworkers sprung out of her cubicle as I passed, like a pouncing jaguar, and grabbed me around the waist. “You need to get some MEAT on your bones!” she shrieked predatorily, like a fairy-tale witch sizing up her intended entrée, as I pinwheeled my arms and squirmed, trying to get out of her grip without punching her in the face. What’s that all about? Lose a few pounds, and all of a sudden everyone’s your Italian mom. She wouldn’t leave me alone until I assured her that I’d adhere to tradition in England and subsist on a diet of chips and beer. It is touching to know that people are concerned about my health.

Between bouts of worky-worky, I’m wrapping up and sending off a few personal possessions to friends hither and yon: stuff I can’t take with me, but don’t want to part with entirely. It’s surprising that I’m managing to type now, because verily, I SUCK at wrapping of any kind (especially the kind without the ‘w’). I nearly had to put myself in the mail along with the packages, since I managed to snare both hands in a huge scary wad of bubble wrap and packing tape. It would have been cute, if I were a kitten; sadly, I am an adult human being and not at all kittenish. Except in my proclivity for napping. Is it naptime now? Robin votes yes!

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