Moving On, Again

I interrupt this series of posts about Ethiopia to say there’s been an unforeseen development which will prevent me from writing for a week or so.

There was a miscommunication about the dates for my house sitting gig in Eton.  I was looking forward to a leisurely last weekend here, but when I walked in the door on Friday at 5pm and my phone connected to the wifi there was a What’s App message from Sam, “Home tomorrow at 10am, hope you had a good time, remember to leave £40 for the cleaners.”

Aaaargh!  I What’s App’d a friend of a friend to ask if his spare room was free this weekend.

“Honey, do you mean tomorrow?” was his reply.  “I’m leaving for Paris on Monday, the flat looks like a bomb went off, and I’ve got to pull two extra shifts at YSL to make the dosh to spend in par-ee.”

I swore I would never use Expedia again, but Air B& B’s website was agonizingly slow and when it finally loaded it was trying to sell me “Experiences!”  On Expedia, I booked the last room in Eton and Windsor—a family room with three beds—and started frantically packing and cleaning.  I ran down the block and bought some flowers, candy, and a thank you note for Sam and his wife.  I’ve loved this place and will write about it once I get through my travels that preceded staying here.

Gotta go … got to scrub the toilet and tub, take out the trash and recycling, restock the fridge, vacuum, clean the kitchen, probably drink half a bottle of wine while I’m at it, then try to sleep and bug out of here early.

There’s just one other hitch.  I went to an hour and a half long yoga class yesterday. It was taught by an extremely handsome 50-something year old man with a posh accent who kept coming over and looming over me to correct my poses.  “Imagine a soft shower of shimmering light,” he suggested in a hypnotic voice.  I wanted to impress him so I may have overdone the spinal twists.  I feel like I might have some broken ribs but I couldn’t, could I?  From doing yoga?

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