Each day of this interminable week has begun with Jeremiah's operatic promise to all within hearing (and who, in the basket of a balloon and between the raucous emissions of the heated gases, is not within hearing of everyone else) to hurl himself to his death. I believe that if the others would consider the matter calmly and take a poll, democracy being our guiding principle, we would find that a significant majority wishes to cease obstructing his plans and, happily, give ourselves more room in which to spread out.
But, no, at the very first light Jeremiah begins ululating and beating his breast and we must all banish sleep, struggle upright, and expostulate with him, laboring to convince him that Camelia's decision to wed the odious Count is one of those things he will not long regret. He, of course, believes none of this. Yet, so long as he is the center of attention, there is a fugitive joy in all he says and does.
I long for a crumpet and tea and sight of land.