At eight this morning, we loaded the Toyota with dirty laundry, and took it over to Auntie’s to wash it. Since then, Mark has been ironing everything from socks to underwear. I can understand ironing shirts and such, but I’ve never understood the need to iron socks.

The reason for the bout of domesticity is that tonight, we’re going to a formal for Mark’s faculty. A lot of geeky people will gather in one room and talk about geeky things, after drinking wine and eating good food. And we’ll all be dressed up in suits and ties.

My role in this is fairly simple: I’ll have to look pretty on Mark’s arm and nod in the right places when Mark talks to people about something that’s way over my head. Hopefully I’ll nod in the right places, and not in the wrong ones.” Mark, your husband doesn’t think that the resonance are within acceptable ranges”.

Tomorrow Stephen throws a party, so we won’t be throwing ourselves into it tonight. No dancing on tables whipping our shirts around our heads. Not that we do anyway, but there won’t even be the potential to refuse if others do it. Tonight will be a sober affair, in all senses.

Tomorrow, though, will be different. I hope. I feel like I’ve earned the right to forget that I’m a wage slave now, this year, and I think I deserve to throw myself into a night of hedonism and outrage. Well, if any opportunity for that presents itself. Our friends, though, tend to be well-behaved constrained people.