Gotchya. Or at least I hope so. She was a slippery one and downright protean when it came to it. But here she is, and for now I'll leave well enough alone.
Speaking of unending struggles, we had it out with the furnace last night. At twelve thirty, an hour after the thermostat had been shut off, the row of wailing pipes that had previously been dubbed The Whistling Way, took on a new name. Alley of Dying Birds. I swear it sounded as if a colony of sparrows was being tortured for information ("Where's the Guff, damn you?"). After another hour of fruitless ear-plugging, we ventured downstairs and managed to tame* the beast. But not before I had directed some very choice, very ill-advised words at the ceiling below our landlady's bedroom.
*The held breath/swift kick combination always works.
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