Mid afternoon. I've just finished unpacking some boxes after we moved into our new, German apartment. It looks like most things have made the jump across the pond with little to no damage, especially some of our favorite furniture. We have only a few pieces, so that's a relief. N is at work, and I decide to settle in for a little magazine reading on our loveseat. I open the magazine, sigh a deep, contented sigh, and strech my legs out. And our favorite lamp goes from a table at the foot of the loveseat onto the wooden floors, with a large crash.
As N would say, this is why we cannot have nice things. Since we've moved here, I've broken said lamp, a few picture frames, the shower drain in our master bath (don't ask), a wine glass that wasn't mine, and I've scratched a present for N before I even gave it to him. I would never characterize myself as a careful, or graceful, person. I'm not entirely in control of my limbs at all times.
But the thing that stinks? I finally got around to contacting the company that makes the lamp above, and it's been discontinued, of course.
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