I knit Keagan a blanket (my first attempt at anything larger than a dishcloth, and it actually looked pretty decent) and I wrote her a letter. I’d been toying with the idea of posting it and finally decided I would. So here it is, my letter to my lovely little niece:

Dear Keagan,

You’re finally here! We’ve all been waiting what seems like forever for you to come, and now that you’re here we all feel compelled to give you presents (and this will happen with great regularity because people LOVE to spoil cute babies).

My present is in the paper grocery bag along with your parent’s Supernatural CD. I would have wrapped it in something fancier, but Canada Post seems to know when you do things up nicely and then they drop your parcel in a puddle.

Anyway, my gift is a blanket that I knit for you. It’s pretty big considering how small you are. And given the heat wave going on in Ottawa, you probably won’t need it right away, but it will be handy come winter as a lap blanket or car-seat liner.

Here’s the really cool part about this blanket though – it’s not just some boring practical gift like socks or underwear, it’s actually a magical gift.

I know, I wouldn’t believe me either normally, but this really is a magical blanket.

Here are some of the uses I’ve discovered so far:

1. It makes a very comfortable flying carpet. That being said, if you’re off gallivanting in the Himalaya’s, do NOT let any yeti you meet use it. Yetis shed like mad and their hair is really hard to wash out – and this is a very washable flying carpet. Also, if some old guy in Cairo with a red hat and a cane offers you a bag of so-called ‘magic beans’ as trade for the carpet – say no and walk away. He’s a crafty one.
2. A very warm superhero cape. You’ll want to build up to really heroic feats though. Rescue a kitten in a tree a few times first and then maybe move on to rescuing folks in evil secret lairs. Lots of heroes think they can just start out big, but really, it’s like any other job – you start small, learn the ropes and work your way up. You’ll also find this cape great for rescuing people who got trapped in the Alps because they thought it would be fun to re-enact The Sound of Music. Try not to judge them too harshly, they can’t help being that stupid.
3. A small, but cozy, teddy bear fort. You’ll need two sticks and some string too, which I didn’t include because Canada Post won’t let me mail sticks. Something about them being a dirty safety hazard. Absolute rot in my opinion. If any of your bears start making lame excuses about needing to use the blanket to protect them from monsters, give them the blanket anyway; then follow them when they all sneak off to the annual Teddy Bear’s Picnic. You won’t taste better honey or sweets anywhere and the blanket does a fine job of keeping curious ants out of the custard.
4. DO NOT let your parents know about this one! This is secret information I’m about to divulge. Now, this blanket’s most useful magic is its ability to hide things. You’ll discover that hiding stuff under your bed when you’re told to “clean up that pig-pen you call a bedroom” will drive your parents absolutely wild. I could never see the big fuss either, I mean it’s all in one spot and easy to find right? Parents lose their minds over this sort of clear-headed logic

So, when you’re cleaning up, stuff everything under the bed as usual, and then put the blanket over the stuff. The blanket will create the illusion that there is nothing there – it’ll blend itself and all your things right into the floor.

That’s a very handy trick if you like collecting snakes, snails, rocks, cute toads or sticks and other things that destroy vacuum cleaners and make mothers shriek like old tea kettles. Trust me on this, I know.

That’s all I’ve discovered so far about the blanket, let me know if you find any new uses for it!

Welcome to the world little Firefly – I’ll try and visit just as soon as I possibly can.

Love,

Auntie R.

(and Uncle Joe too, though, he was no help at all with the knitting)

Those chocolate chip cookies I made that were burned on the bottom and runny on the top? Crappy flour, bad recipe and the oven malfunctioned. Hardly my fault.

The birthday cake that had a rock hard centre? Faulty batter courtesy of Duncan Hines, and the worst cake pan in the universe.

Anyway, Joe just started a new job, so I went to the market and bought us something a little extravagant for dinner:  a whole chicken brought up and hand fed by monks, fresh vegetables picked by angels and a box of Betty Crocker angel-food cake mix. With rainbow sprinkles.

How hard could angel food cake be?

As it turns out, not only can I not be trusted with cake mix or baking, but I am capable of making a mess that would terrify even the most hardened Molly Maid crew.

I blame the electric beater I used.

I turned it on and mixed up a rainbow bit batter that would make Martha Stewart envious – but then to clear the beaters, I turned up the beater and splattered batter all over everything ever;

Walls? Check.

The grill, knife block and wall? Check.

My clothes, face and hair? Check.

The counter, floor and oven door? check, checkity, check!

But, the batter that was left over made a very decent cake which I then collapsed by decorating it in very heavy butter cream icing.

However, Joe, the best husband ever, ate my mostly collapsed cake with great enjoyment. In fact, I had only one piece of it (just to be polite to myself) and could often find Joe cutting himself a generous piece and sneaking off with it.

I have no idea what I’ve learned from this except that angel food cake batter in the eye is very fizzy and hurts.

I’m at the 30,000 word mark and I’ve discovered that writing stories makes you a little mental.

On a good day of writing, my 2000 word minimum comes easy as though the words were being dictated by the people in the story and I was just the recording secretary.

I love these days.

The bad days definitely feel like me doing the work. Each word comes as though I were pulling it out of thick mud, or excavating it out of a diamond with nothing but a sharp stick and willpower.

Over the last few days I have abandoned all sense of pride and started arguing with the characters:

Me: C’mon…I can’t write this by myself! I don’t even know what happens!

Them: Why should we do all the work? You showed up late today and completely neglected us last Friday.

Me: But, the kid upstairs used the sprinkler to water my bedroom though the open window. I can’t be held responsible for that little devil spawn’s actions!

Them: Whatever lady – but hey, good luck and stuff.

So, I’ve spent the last few days feeling like I watched most of the finale of the most awesome show that ever was, only to miss the last 15 minutes because the cable cut out.

And worse, my characters are all wandering around with superior smirks on their faces because they know how it ended.

Jerks.

Normally I’d be typing this at home in mine and Joe’s apartment – which is a lot like a meat-locker with comfortable furniture – but, even our basement apartment is not cool enough to work in right now.

So, I got myself organized and came to the library for 9:45 a.m. figuring it probably didn’t open until 10 a.m. When I arrived, already hot and a little uncomfortable in the early morning heat, I saw a huge crowd of people standing before the glass doors looking anxious.

My first impression was that I was in a George Romero film, but this time looking at things from the zombie’s point of view.

A bunch of slightly sun-sticky shamblers, hands clutching plastic protected books with bar codes on the front chanting “Books….air conditioning…”

I was surprised at the assortment of people desperate to get into the library so early. A strange looking man with a little suitcase on wheels, a young man who looked like a smaller version of David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust days, and any number of students with heavy looking backpacks.

The glass doors slid open and we all went inside, some people rushing to favoured reading tables and others directly to the toilets.

I hunted around for a table where I could plug my laptop in and do some work, and found a great table on the first floor. Window view, shaded by the overhang on the building and wonderfully quiet. Then I discovered a huge mess of what looked like rebar with a plug at the end that lead directly to some dead outlets.

Damn. Bye bye window seat.

I headed to the information desk and after waiting for the woman there to stop her personal conversation with a fellow employee she looked at me. I asked her where I could find working outlets in the library and her helpful answer was:

“There are seven floors in this building, one of them is bound to have something.”

The look on her face clearly said, “What do I look like – an information desk?”

I took the escalator to the next floor and asked a woman at the desk there – she was much, much nicer and pointed me to the desk I’m using now. The only bad part is that it is directly over the kid section and there are no less than three crying children making their displeasure known.

So, I have some pretty serious doubts about getting any work done, but the people watching is nearly as interesting.

Two desks behind me is an older gentleman reading a newspaper, the desk to my left (across a small opening surrounded by glass and metal railings) is a rather serious looking young man staring intently at his laptop. I wonder if he is writing a similar blog post about the “weird red-head who keeps looking at me.”

I kind of hope so actually.

To my right are tall metal shelving units filled with books about writers. From here I can read the spines of a few: A Writer’s Ireland, The Idiot’s Guide to English Literature, Eliot, Joyce & Company.

And, to make things even more interesting there is a man setting up across from me with his HUGE Mac notebook. I mean, the screen must be 19 inches at least. He also just taken off his shoes – bare feet on the public library carpet. Ew.

Oh well, there is some comfort in knowing that I could get a medical book and look up the symptoms for athletes foot without too much effort.

Anyway, here is the dream:

I am on a small passenger plane headed for Vancouver. There are about 25 passengers and all of the female passengers are clustered around a seat at the back of the plane. When the crowd of giggling and preening women part, I see a supremely annoyed looking Robert Pattinson sitting in the seat. It’s clear to me he’s trying not to lose his temper, or give into to the temptation of tossing the lot of them out the door at 25,000 feet. The girls are all making a huge fuss of him, trying to get his attention, trying to find some excuse, any excuse, to touch him.

He sees me looking at him, his mouth is set in a grim line, his teeth clenched. I give him a little half-wave and turn away.

We begin our descent into Vancouver and the girls all reluctantly return to their seats. I stare out the window as we fly lower and notice that a large tank is rumbling it’s way down a set of unused train tracks as we fly over Kerrisdale. The pilot begins to speak over the PA system as I lose sight of the tank:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid we must divert our Vancouver flight to another nearby facility. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened and your seat backs and tray tables in the upright and locked position.”

I’m feeling a little anxious and more than a little annoyed. All I want is to get home and get off this stupidly tiny plane with it’s cramped seating and silly women behind me. Some of the ladies have chosen to become hysterical at the pilot’s announcement and have launched themselves in a flurry of fake tears into Robert Pattinson’s lap. I don’t need to look this time to know that he is not impressed. I can hear him and the flight attendant urging these idiots back to their seats.

The plane finally lands and we are shown into a small, cramped air hangar and told to wait for the arrival of our luggage.

While most of the passengers cluster around Rob, I head over to a counter and ask why the flight’s been diverted. One of the employees, her attention largely focused on the large group around Rob, tells me that the pilot saw a tank in Kerrisdale and was unsure it was safe to land. Cars were being brought in to pick us all up and get us either home or to a hotel.

I walk towards the group which has dispersed somewhat and get Rob’s attention.

“What?” he’s practically snarling with frustration.

“The pilot diverted the flight because he thought there was a threat to our safety. Cars are being sent to pick us all up and take us where we need to go. I thought you might like to know.”

Rob looks surprised, then colours a little for biting my head off. “Thanks.”

I nod at him and walk over to where our luggage is being unloaded. I take my bags down a small hallway near a door over-looking the tarmac. A few moments later I hear footsteps behind me. I turn and it’s Rob.

“Hey,” he says. “Want to grab a cigarette with me?”

I don’t smoke, but what the hell, I agree and we walk out. Rob lights up and we start walking across the tarmac. Suddenly, from behind, there is a cacophony of voices. “Rob! Rob, is this your new girlfriend?”, “How does Kristen feel about this?”, “How did you two meet?” and other questions lost in the babble of voices and sound of camera flashes and hurried footsteps.

Rob grabs my hand and looks at me quickly and then down again. The message is clear: “Don’t look. Say nothing. Keep moving.” We hurry further on and I feel grateful that he didn’t simply bolt and leave me to fend for myself. There is a large white car across the way and we move towards it. As I am looking down and hurrying, I see a small pixie dressed in a deep pink dress at my feet. I bend and scoop her up in my hand as we rush forwards.

The pixie is completely unimpressed with this and bites me.

I frown at her. “I thought maybe you’d prefer to not be trampled by those idiots.”

“Oh.” she says in a tiny bell-like voice. “Then I apologize for biting you.”

The reporters and photographers are now gone and we reach the car. The pixie leaps from my hand into the open driver-side window. The dome light goes on illuminating the amber tinted windows and the driver-side door opens. Inside, the car is upholstered all in white leather. As my eyes adjust to the slightly darker interior, I see that the seats are covered in strings of raw meat, watery blood and the small holder between the two front seats is full of what looks like a blood and milk mixture.

I look back at Rob and he grins, “Well, we have to have somewhere to eat, drink and whore.”

At this point I got woken up by a garbage truck in the alley behind the house – and maybe that’s for the best.

So I sat down this morning and started looking at pictures from the online Restoration Hardware catalogue. I had some lovely fantasies of me sitting down in my Madeleine Side Chair to work at my beautiful Portuguese Desk, a cozy Scrollwork Tibetan Rug beneath my feet and a cup of fragrant green tea within easy reach. Once in awhile, as I was immersed in the creation of my incredibly brilliant first novel, I would look out the generously sized windows towards the sea and maybe get up to throw another log on the fire – after stepping over my irish wolfhound dogs, Heathcliff and Boris.

How’s that for ideal?

Then I realized the chances of me ever having such an office were pretty slim and I’d never get any work done in there anyway. I’d be too distracted by all the first edition books in my Grand French Casement Oak Cabinets and probably fritter the day away playing with my dogs on the seashore.

I took a good look at the work space I have at home and realized that aside from the fact that it’s pretty much in my living room, it’s actually not a bad space for a home office. The less than ideal aspects about my current space were all the office supplies cluttering up the lovely 1930′s dining table I use as my desk.

I figured if I couldn’t have my office by the sea, I could have a good work space here at home. So I cleaned the table off – and ruthlessly threw everything that was superfluous onto a huge pile that I will donate to a school-supplies drive come September.

So, now I’m sitting at my newly cleaned up desk and having another realization: I still haven’t fulfilled the object of the exercise. I’ve made my home office more or less ideal – but I’ve done nothing to envision what my office/work life might be like if I were get a more regular job outside of my home office.

If I’m being honest, I suppose I don’t care so much about the office space as I do about the work I’m doing and the people I’m doing it with, but I’ll give it a shot anyway:

The work should be interesting and meaningful.

Ideally, I want to work on something that means something to me personally – something I’d use, buy or want for myself. I’ve worked on projects and at places that were never more than a means to a paycheque. Lots of people do this and it’s considered normal. I don’t want that kind of normal. I want to want more than just the paycheque.

I would also prefer work that doesn’t cause me to go home feeling stressed out and annoyed with the universe – I don’t want to become my work, I want my work to simply be a natural extension of something I like anyway (and then I want to be paid a reasonable salary for doing it).

My work environment should be reasonably pleasant.

When I say “work environment” I mean the people in the work place. Ideally, I would work at a smallish company with (or for) like-minded people and we will create a work environment that is nice to be in. When I’m at work, I want to actually do work. I want to create and produce things. I want to know that my colleagues and I are working together toward a common goal, but I also want a relaxed atmosphere that is friendly. My dream job has an ROWE policy anyway, so the rest should follow. I also want the people I work for to be available and have an open door policy.

I’ve had many managers, and they were nearly always busy with paperwork or in meetings so it was rare that I could use them as a resource for the work I was doing. Of course, they always made time (eventually) for performance reviews and when they discovered I’d been struggling along and improvising a little they’d inevitably ask, “Why didn’t you come to me about this? That’s what I get paid for.”

The work space should be set up for the results I’m supposed to produce.

Most places don’t give their employees a say in how their work space is set up. I suppose all I would ask is that I have some measure of privacy, one of those metal locker things for my coat and personal belongings, and equipment that works, with the software I need set up and ready to go.

I can’t count how many times I’ve started at an office with an empty desk, or a PC that doesn’t work, a broken chair and two cheap pens that leak in a dusty holder. Please, if you want good things from me, treat me like I matter. Have this stuff set up and tested, don’t give me the chair no one else will sit in, and clean the desk.

If there could also be some sort of cleaning schedule in place for the kitchen – that would be awesome. Communal fridges/microwaves/sinks are generally disgusting and I hate having to clean random goo off the counter before I can use it.

Looking over what I’ve just written here, I don’t think my ideals are very demanding or unrealistic. Ultimately, I want to be happy in my work. I want to know that I am doing something useful with and for people with whom I have a good and honest working relationship. I will give a lot to the place that can provide these things.

Now that I have a picture in my head of my ideal office, I just need to start looking for a place that fits these criteria!

This just seemed to naturally follow:

I don’t normally buy anything from the self help section of bookstores. I’ve always considered the fiction and literature sections to be all the self help I could need or want. I bought this book since it was the selection of the month for the book club I just joined. I opened it with the expectation that it would be full of new-agey, cheesy sort of talk about becoming one with the flow of the universe and eating more vegetables or something.

As it turns out, this book was actually not too bad.

The author, along with a team of people, interviewed over 200 people over the age of 60 (screened from a much larger pool of candidates) to find out the secret of their happiness. The interviewees were chosen by their friends and loved ones because they seemed to have a knack for being happy, and can look at their lives and say “I have no regrets and I am happy.”

The book is organized so that there is one secret per chapter so I found it very easy to read. I was also able to skip around a little in the book when I wanted to without worrying about keeping a storyline straight (or spoiling a storyline).

Speaking of spoilers, here comes one now: I’m showing you the man behind the curtain and revealing the five secrets (you’ve been adequately warned):

1. Be true to yourself.
2. Leave no regrets.
3. Become love.
4. Live the moment.
5. Give more than you take.

Not exactly mind-bending stuff.

These are all things anyone could have figured out on their own. However, there is something to be said for having them all collected in a book. I think the real difficulty of these “secrets” is incorporating them into your own life – especially as that generally involves a blunt self-appraisal of how you live and who you are and a lot of courage.

I did find parts of the book very repetitive – these secrets are really hammered home – and the third secret made me roll my eyes a little. The phrase  “become love” is a little saccharine for my taste, but I do agree with its meaning: acting like a self-absorbed jackass will ultimately lead to unhappiness (and probably a lot of loneliness since no one will want your company) so you should be nicer.

This book made me feel kind of guilty somehow though – like how I feel when I walk past people canvasing for charities downtown (“No thanks, just out for bus tickets!”), but I’m not sure this feeling is a point against the book. Maybe that little feeling of uncomfortableness is the point of the book.

The best part of the book (for me) was not Dr. Izzo’s explanations about what he means by these secrets. What stood out as I read and flitted from chapter to chapter were the direct quotes from the interviewees. The people Dr. Izzo and his team interviewed weren’t a bunch of young 30-somethings like myself who are only just starting to glimpse what it might be like to have some wisdom one day. These are people who have 30+ years on me and make me look like a silly kid – and what they have to say is valuable.

Their messages, in my opinion, were summed up best by the woman who said she always tried to think ahead to when she’d be old and grey and sitting in a rocking chair: would that woman look back at this moment with happiness or regret. If the answer was happiness, it was the right path.

Will I think that for myself when making decisions about my life? Probably not as often as I ought to, but at least it’ll be there in my head and I have the option of having a moment of wisdom.

I still stand by my opinion that the best self-help is found in the literature section, but Dr. Izzo’s book exceeded my expectations and gave me some food for thought.

I approached with a smile on my face and offered to take a picture of the two of them together.

The gentleman smiled back – a little hesitant to hand his camera over to a complete stranger. I set my purchases on the ground and he shrugged, grinned and handed me the camera as his wife came over.

“This nice young lady said she’d take our photo!” he said. His accent seemed to be somewhere from the southern United States.

His wife smiled and started pointing out what she’d like for me to get in the photo with them.

I took two pictures, including the boats and mountains, and handed the camera back.

“You Canadians are so nice!” the wife said.

The husband laughed and said, “I’m moving to Canada! You guys are just so sweet and helpful.”

I couldn’t help but laugh myself – it’s the old Canadian stereotype: we’re polite and friendly. However, if making that stereotype a reality for visitors to Vancouver makes their day, I’m happy to do it.

I wished them a good visit and as I picked up my things and started towards home, I heard them offer to take another couple’s photo in-front of the ships. “‘That nice young lady took our picture and we’d like to do the same for you.”

The other couple happily accepted and I continued on. I have to admit to feeling absurdly happy; it really is the little things that count.

Rare are the days I can walk by one and not go in. Even rarer are the times when I go in and come out empty-handed.

I went into Chapters today with my friends Emily and Beau and within less than five minutes, I’d found a book: At Large and at Small – Confessions of a Literary Hedonist by Anne Fadiman (along with three other books, because I really am very weak-willed in bookstores).

Anne Fadiman is the sole reason I enjoy reading essays. After years of being forced to write essays in high school and university  – writing that seemed to involve sucking the life and joy out of every word ever printed – I was finished with essays. Then I stumbled onto Ex Libris – Confessions of a Common Reader also by Anne Fadiman and what a gem that book is! My copy is a paperback with a pale green cover and contains some of the most entertaining essays about being a book lover I’ve ever read.

That little green book hooked me and suddenly essays were not life-sucking, paper-wasting pieces of boredom; they were interesting, well-written comments on something I truly love: books!

So you can imagine how eager I was to dive into the new find.

After saying goodbye to Emily and Beau I took out my newest treasure and began to read at the bus stop.

Now, I can read anywhere (and frequently do) so I’ve got the skills to read and enjoy a book while being aware enough of the world around me to still catch a bus. I got on the #10, which was unusually crowded, and managed to find as seat at the very back. I sat and opened my book.

Normally, I’d pick up where I left off and the rest of the world would cease to exist. Today, I found it hard.

The guy one seat over to my left had the most piercing nose-whistle I’ve ever heard. The guy to my right was blathering on about the colour blue to the guy next to him at top volume. The bus’s brakes were in desperate need of some kind of tuning given the high-pitched screams of protest they made every time the bus came to a stop. Another woman was digging her in over-sized purse for a phone that was shrieking out Katy Perry’s I Kissed a Girl at a very loud volume (who knew faux alligator skin was such a poor sound barrier) not to mention the various kinds of music leaking out of people’s headphones.

It was nearly too much to tune out. I am not good at meditation – largely because I’ve only ever tried a handful of times and taming the monkey-mind is not going to happen overnight – so drowning out the people on the bus, and the surrounding traffic was not going well today. My immediate feeling towards all these noises (and their creators) was one of pure resentment.

I know the whole world can’t suddenly turn down the volume because I want to read – but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it. This resentment towards the noisy world coming between me and my books goes back a long way.

As a kid I remember not being able to find a lot of time to read quietly – there were always interruptions. Most of these interruptions came in the form of my mother’s voice: “What are you doing inside? It’s a beautiful day, go outside and play.”

You want to see resentment? Separate a kid from her book all in the name of “playing outside”. Anyone who really loves to read will fully understand my sulky replies, the irritated tone of voice and even the backchat that was usually some form of, “Why don’t YOU go outside and play and leave me alone?”

I still can’t understand how parents can desperately want their kids to be readers and yet cannot, absolutely cannot, leave their children alone when they DO finally pick up a book and get absorbed in it. The moment the outside world disappears for a reading child is exactly the moment parents start in on all the apparent virtues of being outside (though, even if the kid does go out, heaven forbid you come back dirty with tears in your clothes and scraped up knees!).

Anyway, after many, many repetitions of this, I got smart. I took a small bag (a red canvas child’s purse with a picture of Snoopy on it), packed a couple of books, some stolen cookies, and a juice box and hightailed it through the woods behind my aunt and uncle’s place directly to the local graveyard. Once there, I found a great and shady spot behind the mausoleum, sprawled out in the grass, and read to my heart’s content.

I can’t remember the name of the family buried there, but I hope they didn’t mind me borrowing a little shade while I read The Secret Garden or The Stand and ate some Oreos. The graveyard is maybe an odd place to find such happiness but it was well chosen. It was close enough to the house that I could get back fairly quickly, but far enough away that if Mum stood on the back step and yelled for me I’d be able to honestly say I hadn’t heard her calling.

I wasn’t an awful child, just determined to pursue my passion without all the commentary – and children need privacy and freedom the same as adults.

In the winter, I lived at the library (usually on weekends) and the librarian, Annie, was always glad to let me take a chair out of the way and read whatever I liked. I also read under the covers with a flashlight, I would read standing around in my room while listening for any sign of a parent (and stuff the book under the pillow and say I was cleaning up when caught), I read in the bathroom, on the bus, at recess, in class (when I could get away with it), on class trips including the over-night trip to Camp Sylvan and once even at a particularly bad company summer picnic.

Romeo and Juliet’s doomed romance was far more interesting than getting a loaf of bread from the freezer, or cleaning my room. Reading about the survivors of “Captain Trips” in The Stand (and my secret conviction that I would have been a survivor too) was much more entertaining than doing the dishes.

Even today, I still feel that same resentment at being pulled from whatever world I was inhabiting. Of course, the good thing about being an adult is that no one ever tells me to go outside and play if I’d rather read. Nor am I frequently interrupted to fetch things or clean my room and best of all – I don’t have to hide out in the graveyard with contraband cookies.

I sometimes think I should open up a reading lounge. People would come in with a book and sprawl out on a plush and comfortable rug or chair and then just zone out and read. No laptops, all cell phones on vibrate, no chatterboxes yapping about the colour blue – just some unobtrusive music and the sound of pages being turned.

How peaceful that would be!

I hear my own reading lounge calling to me; my very comfortable couch where I will read without further interruptions.