I am home again, among familiar things. The cat to which I owe my services greeted me condescendingly at the door and allowed herself to be comforted by shedding as much hair as she could manage onto my sweater. Maliciously grinning in the light from the hallway lamps, the staircase awaited me coiled and ready to spring: in a fit of affection it let me pass unhindered. Going outside for a second armload of mathoms, I was greeted by our butler--a small, squat fellow with shortcropped gold hair and bright brown eyes named Tony. He was speechlessly blithering something about puppies when I left him to carry in a flock of captive waterbottles.

I have so much to write about! Not that I'm normally short of material, but . . . to give you a good idea of it, I fleshed out a third of my paper-and-leather journal this last week--the last half of which has taken me since late ottobre of last year to muddle through . . . so many things have I seen . . . I need a hot chocolate. Erm. Maybe I will make myself a pot of the vanilla-almond tea that was gifted to me for Christmas.

And I didn't think I would miss my study routine but the whole idea of staying home for another few weeks is making me uncomfortable. Until tomorrow, when my conscience will find me napping in front of the fireplace with Nora murmuring in her chair next to me. But then, I miss my friends. I should like very much to take them all to Fellini's and drink milchkaffee and sit and talk for hours. What a very odd thing for such an introvert, to miss so many people.

I am amused. So is Nora.