Shoot Me. Shoot Me Now.

Even the most trying day - and this was close, and we're not nearly over the worst, O Best Beloveds - can have its saving graces.

Today's came when I looked at the smoking ruins that are my life and muttered, to no one in particular, "Shoot me.  Shoot me now."

A passing colleague looked over and said, "Why? Is it rabbit season?"  After which we laughed immoderately for a rather ridiculous length of time.  Ah, the healing powers of your finer Warner Bros short subjects - something that should never be underestimated.

But even so:  please.  Shoot me.  I can't believe that moving ever, ever seemed like anything but a nearly suicidal idea, except that self-immolation may be out of the question, as I think the dogs are far likelier to murder me first.  They had their exit interviews at the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries (of all places) today and are most put out, although thank goodness also cleared to fly.

If you don't hear from me tomorrow, by the bye, it's either because the movers have been more than usually disastrous, or I've simply gone and thrown myself off a bridge.  The latter seems even at this dire juncture both rash and premature, so I'll try and soldier through.  One way or another, come Wednesday, we'll have a nearly vacant house and will be just one day short of shaking the dust of this place from our heels for good.  And that's something that might just get me through tomorrow.