I apply the same tactic when I have to eat something I loathe.
I put the dish in front of me, pretend it's delicious, avoid looking at it as much as possible,
and it's gone before I've had time to realize what it is.
When I get up in the morning, another very disagreeable moment, I leap out of bed, think to myself, “You'll be slipping back under the covers soon,”
walk to the window, take down the blackout screen, sniff at the crack until I feel a bit of fresh air, and I'm awake.
I strip the bed as fast as I can so I won't be tempted to get back in.
Do you know what Mother calls this sort of thing? The art of living. Isn't that a funny expression?
We've all been a little confused this past week because our dearly beloved Westertoren bells have been carted off to be melted down for the war,
so we have no idea of the exact time, either night or day.
I still have hopes that they'll come up with a substitute, made of tin or copper or some such thing, to remind the neighborhood of the clock.
Everywhere I go, upstairs or down, they all cast admiring glances at my feet,
which are adorned by a pair of exceptionally beautiful (for times like these!) shoes.
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