I'm not sure about my new flat. It seems perfectly fine, but it's not home yet. Not sure if it ever will be. The month to month lease is great, in case this doesn't work out.

Lavender, I swear to God, if you second guess yourself one more time, no sweets for a week.

The flat. Right. It's... smaller than I'd hoped, but having to move on such short notice is never really easy. The landlady seems nice enough, claims that the place is free of pests. If I see a rat, I'll go to the department of housing at the Ministry. I don't need another dead mouse under the ice box. No. That smell... I'll never be able to eat french cheeses again.

More useless work at work tomorrow. Yes, today was only my second day, but I've been doing this (successfully) for two years now. I don't need transition time. I'd be perfectly fine with getting an assignment. I want an assignment. Need one. With everything that's been going on...

Speaking of... Ernie MacMillian. Wayne Hopkins. Alicia Spinnet. How has there not been a story written about this? Is the Prophet just sitting on information? Do they actually know things they're not printing? I doubt it. I don't give the Prophet much credit. From what I've been reading lately, Ticky Boxman has been doing most of their reporting. He's a sad, sad man. I remember him from a conference that was in the Riviera. I hadn't actually wanted to go to the conference, but they paid for the hotel. On the beach. With cabana boys to look at. They forced my hand.

I should sleep, but I keep looking at back issues of the Prophet. I was out of touch for so long, avoiding everything and everyone associated with this place, that I really hadn't been paying attention to anything that didn't involve croissants or Brie.

Brie. Must spray perfume now.