A solitudinal shalom.

At 11:14 a.m. on this Thursday which did just path, I was subverting gender expectations and multi-tasking*. My continuing foray into all things ‘Netty has eroded my capacity for mono-tasking. To simply sit down and be is, I fear, a praxis now forever lost to me. So, I simultaneously found (lost) myself completing a jigsaw puzzle on Facebook, listening to a podcast the subject of which one fails to recall and contemplating securing a “VPN” to buy a gun off the dark web†.

The letterbox clacked. An envelope struck mat. Inside, a single page of hand-written text. Below it is replicated:

Hi hi hi, Mr. Kettle. I not know it before but you are my Guardian angel. When I work for you, I feel gloom and griefsome. But like Greek idiom tells, I jumped out of frying pan and into fire. I can not  ...