Journal entry - January 4, late at night
Perhaps it is for the best that I did not realize until just now, when it is nearly no longer true, that today is (for better or, more likely, for worse) my natal day.
Not that it makes much difference at all, of course, as things of that...nature tend to lose all meaning when one has passed a certain age. That is to say, any age past caring about cake.
I have been to La Jolie - or, perhaps I should say, what remains of it. It is hardly worthy of the name Jolie anymore; the house has been utterly destroyed by the fire, and most of the outbuildings as well. They did their work thoroughly, I will give them that much. The gardens would, of course, be fairly wild by now if they'd been left alone in the first place, but alas, they were trampled through and are nearly as ravaged as the house. It's - a pity - they were beautiful. Her roses are gone. They wouldn't be blooming now, anyway, but still, it's -
Someone appears to have moved into the one remaining shed, far enough from the main cluster of buildings that it was nearly untouched by the fire, and they've set up housekeeping in between the last few rusty gardening tools that were not plundered by my erstwhile tenants. I do not know who it is, they weren't in when I called - I have no wish to. I'll let them be, for the time being, I suppose; it's unlikely I'll be needing a garden shed straight away.
I will admit that it was a disheartening visit. Everything - every room, every rug, every painting, every book, every - everything, gone, without a trace. Not that things such as that matter. And it isn't - it was never that much - it isn't anything worth holding onto. But the gardens-- they needn't have destroyed the gardens.
Not that it makes much difference at all, of course, as things of that...nature tend to lose all meaning when one has passed a certain age. That is to say, any age past caring about cake.
I have been to La Jolie - or, perhaps I should say, what remains of it. It is hardly worthy of the name Jolie anymore; the house has been utterly destroyed by the fire, and most of the outbuildings as well. They did their work thoroughly, I will give them that much. The gardens would, of course, be fairly wild by now if they'd been left alone in the first place, but alas, they were trampled through and are nearly as ravaged as the house. It's - a pity - they were beautiful. Her roses are gone. They wouldn't be blooming now, anyway, but still, it's -
Someone appears to have moved into the one remaining shed, far enough from the main cluster of buildings that it was nearly untouched by the fire, and they've set up housekeeping in between the last few rusty gardening tools that were not plundered by my erstwhile tenants. I do not know who it is, they weren't in when I called - I have no wish to. I'll let them be, for the time being, I suppose; it's unlikely I'll be needing a garden shed straight away.
I will admit that it was a disheartening visit. Everything - every room, every rug, every painting, every book, every - everything, gone, without a trace. Not that things such as that matter. And it isn't - it was never that much - it isn't anything worth holding onto. But the gardens-- they needn't have destroyed the gardens.