september 22, 2001. Another long, slow Saturday in the country. It rained an enormous amount today, washing about the maggot colony in the big composting bin, irritating Ceilidh and wetting the bottoms of my pants. I'm just glad that it stopped: I'm in no rush to live through another bout of autumn rains, although I know that I will. Scherezade is having a birthday party tonight. I'm after wanting to go, impossible or not. If I lived at home it would just be another excuse to pull out my giant martini glass & one of my dame dresses - which, frankly, is nothing to sneeze at. But when attending becomes inconceivable, the party takes on mythical proportions. By now I'm sure that it'll be the best party ever thrown in the Western hemisphere. Like the Lawyer's famous gatherings in 3rd year, it will re-define the word "party" for generations to come. Sigh. me, dirk & scherezade at fireball 98. this time last year: I'm water up in the atmosphere: put me at the bottom of the sea and I'll crush a man's rib cage as soon as look at him, but up here in the ionosphere, I'm too diffuse to do anything but look pretty in an abstract sort of way.