Day 33

So now how am I going to build the protective layers of blubber I need to survive my swim to the North Atlantic for the summer?

I suppose I'll have to filter-feed on plankton like everybody else.

The HM and I left our habitat unoccupied this evening, while we traveled to the mercantile. We'd written ahead with a list of goods and sundries we desired, and Ol' Hank said he'd do his best to get us what we needed. Likely he did more than we know to get us what he got us, and I don't mean to complain. Ol' Hank filled our vehicle with snacks and drinks, fresh fruit, dry goods, treats from the butcher, and of course a bundle of bok choi. He made some substitutions, which is his prerogative. Can't fault him for that. The only one thing that chaps me: He swore up and down he'd have two sacks of flour waiting for us, and come to find out he had none at all.

Now, before some archivist from the future starts worrying about our state of want, let me tell you we have more than enough in our larder to eat like royalty for weeks on end. We have more food than I have metaphors to mix, and already in this entry I've demonstrated a surfeit of those. We have no fear for our table, as others have, and we count ourselves plenty lucky.

If I admit to being afeared, it isn't for my belly, but for my tenuous grasp on the passage of time.

If I can't mix up my weekly dough, how will I know it's Friday afternoon?

If the habitat-mate can't make muffins, will Sunday morning come at all?

Rest assured I have a plan. Many before me have used the stars to set their clocks and mark the seasons.  These last few nights have been remarkably clear. I believe it's long past time for me to learn to read the changing inclinations of the spheres. I'll rediscover what my ancient ancestors knew.

This very evening I'll write again to Ol' Hank. See if he can get me an astrolabe.