Trekhprudny Lane

News from here... a quiet and peaceful afternoon, for a change. EB, home from school with a cold for two days, has been painting magnificent pictures, attacking the paper from all angles and wielding the full spectrum of colors -- a radical departure from her earlier, rather more timid work in crayon. She and A have begun a long weekend, since Monday is the Day of the Defender of the Fatherland, otherwise known as Men's Day. Lula has learned a new word and now uses it to answer every question put to her: "No," said with melancholy, regretfully, as if she'd have liked to oblige but, unfortunately, at this moment, cannot.

A has developed the annoying habit of waking up, shuffling blindly to the ipod dock and cranking either old business news or experimental jazz. Each morning this week I've realized, about half an hour into the day, that I am starting to feel a little frantic, and after grasping around for a reason (toothache? looming presentation?) I discover that either Ky Risdall is doing the numbers again or someone is strangling a tenor sax right in the living room. "So unnecessary!" I mutter as I switch off the sound and harrumph back to the kitchen. "Heyargh!" comes the protest, through thick toothpaste foam, from behind the bathroom door. Regular as clockwork.

Finally -- I am ready to admit it now -- I have a halva problem.