Still no sign of the Micra

It's out there. Somewhere. But we can't get it until the police "release" it, which of course they won't do, because they thought they already did when they said "Your car is here, go and get it." This bit of verbal assent is simply not good enough for Mr. McFie. For him, apparently the entire police force must show up at the garage and hand in individual release forms signed by their mothers. Only this will convince him of the fact that we are allowed to take our own car. Until then, there will be a $40 a day "storage" fee, thank you very much, for the burden of having to hold someone else's car.

Luckily the insurance is covering this. But still. 

I feel very fragile lately. I am somehow acutely aware all of a sudden of consumer capitalist culture, how evil it is. Just how everything costs. The fact that behind every activity, every little thing we do during the day, someone is standing with his hand out, looking to make a buck. It's not that I have to worry about money necessarily, I know I'm very lucky that way. It's just that there is so much want, and want, and WANT, and so many people buying up beautiful things and places that should belong to everyone, and so many bills and fees and fines, and all of it makes me want to run away to Alaska and grow my own food and be a hermit. Is there a Unabomber inside me somewhere, just dying to get out? 

Maybe.