Now for something completely mundane

My son wanted to call his father, so after he got off the school bus this afternoon we walked over to the payphones outside the Dairy Mart. You can make an international call from the at the cost of $1 for three minutes. I dropped four quarters into the slot, dialled the number, and handed the phone over to Xander. His grandmother answered. The Sicilian wasn't home. Cue one very disappointed seven year old. I don't know what to tell him. Daddy doesn't want to talk to us because he's too depressed? Xander wouldn't understand.

(I guess I should explain that the Sicilian is my ex-husband. He lives in London [yes, the one in the UK], and does his best to make our lives hell. His mother is even worse than him. I'll never date outside my species again.)

Xander has been asking me questions about New Orleans and hurricane Katrina. They were learning about hurricanes when Katrina struck. He hasn't been asking any more questions about death and what happens after we die. He went through that stage eighteen months ago. He's a bright, intellegent little boy, and I despair when I think of the world he's growing up in. I've given serious thought about us moving back to the UK. Xander has dual citizenship, and I still have my resident alien status. I have friends who would help us out. Trouble is, Tony Blair is almost as bad as Bush. Maybe when Gordon Brown becomes Prime Minister.