Off the Cliff

Had my annual phone call from the money woman this morning, who says the money I want from them and the money they feel comfortable giving me exactly matches hurray, supposing markets don't completely crash, but also that at that rate I will run out of capital in nine years or so and will have to live on my house. Which she's nudging me to think about selling now, which hell no. Market is depressed, houses sit for weeks and months, no one's buying. We may never go back to the interest rates that fuelled the real estate bubble but they will go down eventually, enough to reassure buyers. And if nothing else, no rental will come as cheap as this place does. So I will be here for maybe another five years. If I can avoid complete crippledom, which sometimes I despair of. Maybe it would help if I did all my exercises as many times as I'm supposed to but dear god they're so dull.

Finished a couple of Maigrets. Maigret depresses me; I shouldn't read him. Think I will abandon Dark Lord of Derkhelm, which isn't doing it for me. Have David Mitchell's Unruly, and not sure I want it. There are two David Mitchells IIRC, and I think this is the wrong one. Anyway, Winter's Gifts arrived yesterday from across the pond and I'd rather be reading that.