The cellar is our fridge. It works amazingly well.
U. always kicks off her covers and sleeps bottom up. Steeply. Arms tucked under her chest. It still drops to about ten degrees centigrade at night; maybe a sleeping bag is the solution.
I spent about a thousand dollars in fifteen minutes in the local bicycle and lawn mower store yesterday. They offered delivery next week, and when on the clerk’s computer I pointed out our house, a lone black square in an expanse of pale green, he said, “Aren’t you afraid?” No, sir, not until you said that.
The airline from whom we bought tickets to and from the Stockholm marathon declared bankruptcy yesterday. A trusty friend sent me an sms about this; otherwise I’d have never known. Do we get our ticket money back? Now we must find a new route to the capital. But A. arrives this afternoon (by bus, thankfully) and after almost a year of preparation, he’ll find a way to run that thing if he has to get there by camel. (That sounds like I’ve been reading Dr. Seuss, but we didn’t bring any.)
U: Mama, are all trees in a different place?
Me: Shall we celebrate Princess Estelle’s baptism with some princessen torte at the bakery?
E: Mama, I’m the dolly and you’re the person; you decide.
I’m also fielding biology questions above my head. Does anyone know (hey, Chris, Scott) whether the color pattern of a caterpillar resembles that on the resulting butterfly’s wings? And will all caterpillars of one species have the same color pattern, and make butterflies with the same color pattern, or are there genetic variations (as among people and horses and cats and fish)?