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Learning to Fall: little addict.
We worked late tonight over at Dad and Gill's and now I'm so tired I can hardly think anymore. We scraped and caulked the last of the mouldings surrounding the ceiling and the part that Dad calls the frieze that sounds just like freeze as in what you do with ice cream other than eat it, but it's spelled different. Cleaning inside all the scroll work and leaves and rope details gave me two new blisters and Terry a dozen of them, so bad so that he'll probably not even be able to squeeze and sniff that lace bra he stole from Ms. Harriet right from under her nose just yesterday.
All day long that was all I could think of how we stole it. We stole something and that's wrong--so wrong it stinks and we'll probably go to hell--but it was still just about the most fun I can remember having in a long time. Terry says we should go back again and I'm trying to find a good reason to say no to him.
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