SATURDAY, 14 OCTOBER, 2000, NEW ORLEANS

It is over. It is complete. My house has been moved. Truck returned. Barely. The piano was still in the truck until yestereve when I called up Patti and demanded that she come over and help me or she’d never get that painting I promised her. Moving pianos stresses me out beyond recognition. Otherwise, I never would have been such a cunt to Patti. There’s a very real historical reason for this, but the move is too fresh in my mind to go into it. It scares me to recall the incident. Also, the truck had a slow air leak on one of the front tyres. I could drive all day and it would be fine, but during the night, most of the air would ooze away. Weird. After sitting dormant for four days, the front tyre was nearly completely deflated. There are only about three gas stations in my part of New Orleans, none of which had functioning air pumps. So this afternoon I drove this big ass truck verrrry slowwwwleeee out the I-10 towards Kenner as people honked and beeped and pointed spasmodically at the flat. I mimed, “Yes, I know, thank you,” more times than I can count and finally squealed into the rental agency leaving a trail of black rubber scored into the cement. That tyre is a metaphor for my soul, which has nearly been done in by this move. BUT!!!… That is all over! It’s back to leading a charmed life overseen by a little country kitchen cherub sprinkling gold dust and cute little stars about my path. Melusine and our ole chum BadKitty arrived safely from San Franisco carrying two grumpy, bewildered cats. I was nervous house hunting a few weeks ago with the responsibility of finding something æsthetically pleasing to a superbly classy laydee, and to make all the arrangements on her behalf before she even had a chance to see the place. My black little heart welled up with glee when Melusine and BadKitty toured through the house, eyes lit up, squeals of delight, commenting that their expectations had been surpassed, that there could not possibly be a more beautiful house, that the location is 100% prime, that the Marquis Done Good. Trik just came by to check out the new crib after driving me back from the truck place (thanks, honey-bun-bun-of-fun!) Because we are in the Garden District, there are little clumps of tourists on walking tours or in horse drawn buggies taking in the neighbourhood. Trik commented how cool it was that we had reverent tourists outside our house instead of crack junkies. “Dude,” quod she, “you should make a plaque to hang on your house — one of those historical housing plaque thingies — invent some weird history that happened here and charge the tourists for a walk-through. Dude!” Hmmmm… Maybe. Just. May. Beeeee… I’m a good doggie. It’s that damned country kitchen cherub up to its usual charming tricks. I can do no wrong, it seems. I get belly scritches. So my life has been moved, the piano is in the house, the truck is returned, and Melusine is pleased. It’s all I asked for. It’s everything I got. Now the fun begins.