I’m sitting out in Silva’s back yard, comforted by the constant joyful screaming from Playland and the laptop warming my lap like a cat, streaming Imogen Heap’s electric siren call, but hoping more people come. It’s been raining on and off today, like taps being turned just behind the clouds, and it’s driving off all the gray-hairs we had been hoping would drop by. Mostly what we have are dreadful brass figurines and a rather stolid antique collection of pink, intricately patterned imperial dishes of the sort I remember seeing in museums back east, (where they tend to care about that sort of thing). In my opinion, there is very little sane people might want in their house, hence our attempt to get rid of them. There is, however, a very grand old chess-set I hope finds a good home, some leather clothing, and some silver candlesticks quite this side of nice.