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Harold Skimpole's ideal for life sounds eerily similar to my daydreams. John Jarndyce describes him as a child, but not in a pejorative way, simply as a matter of fact.

My daydream is running and walking and get sun and reading and getting a coffee and watching the game and the show and the movie. But all that is only possible if I produce. Thus, I am reluctantly productive.

John Jarndyce asks the kids how their time was at the Jellyby house. The girls both remarked how concerned for Africa Mrs. Jellyby was. But when pressed, Esther finally conceded, "that perhaps," Mrs. Jellyby was, "a little unmindful of her home." Finally, Richard weighs in a little more bluntly.

It's fascinating to picture educated mid-Victorian Brits' paternalistic focus on Africa. Much of it probably came from a charitable-not-imperialistic place, of spreading Christianity and capitalism, albeit misguided and what we'd now likely consider racist. And I'm sure people like the Jellybys really did exist, people that focused on "big ideas" like settling Africa at the expense of keeping on their own houses in order.

Makes me think of all the settling Africa big ideas--charitable but misguided and regardless, besides the point--that are holding me back from keeping my own house in order. My metaphorical house, i.e. my body, my health...and even my actual house that needs countless fixes that I'm too lazy or unskilled to undertake.

When I was younger and more naive, I used to tell myself I didn't want to do DIY house projects, like learning how to take of my own house was beneath me or something. But looking back, it seems more and more like cope, it's not like I'm some Fortune 500 CEO, I'm just a corporate middle manager, who if he was honest with himself, probably has time to do some basics around the house rather than stare incessantly at the things that need done while I tell myself I need time to decompress from my stressful job.

A few nights ago, we walked by a newer immigrant family that moved in on our block. One of the nice things about living in Central Florida is the diversity of the people that keep arriving. It was a weeknight just after dinner time, the dad was mowing the lawn, the mom was edging with a weedeater while keeping her toddler at arm's length. The next day we would be heading to Universal for two nights at a resort hotel, including a day at the park and a pool cabana, a trip we didn't really budget for. That family will be richer than us because they are so much more responsible with money I thought to myself.

But then this morning on another walk, I passed the house of another immigrant family that moved in a year ago, and like the newer family, they'd been doing their own yard work. Except I hadn't seen them out there for long time, the grass was overgrown, their were weeds growing out of seemingly every joint in their driveway pavers. Something has to eventually give, for us for now it's spending.

OK, so this latest chapter--which sort of felt like a fever dream, one I had to read twice to parse, not on a account of outdated historical references, but rather because it was all over the place--it ended with the gang packing up to leave. They were only there for one night and one strange morning walk.

But I learned a lot about the world surrounding the Chancery Court, so the chapter was worthwhile.

So what if my reorg at work isn't my new home? What if it's my one night at the Jellyby's?

I've certainly had more than my fair share of morning adventures that felt like fever dreams in the moment, but in hindsight provided valuable lessons and information.

Thrust upon a new home, ostensibly a better one, our present narrator finds the leader eccentric and the order chaotic. At least she has a home.

I can relate, a large reorg did the same for me at work, but at least I have a job.

Esther Summerson, en route to her new living situation, presumably much better than the miserable existence she was being plucked out of, looking sad, asked by her escort wasn't she glad to be going. She confirmed she was glad to be going, and this was her escort's response.

We can be on the precipice of something great for our family.

July, one more month with my oldest son in the house before he leaves for college in August, done with the busy-ness of June, before the busy-ness of school and soccer for my younger two in August...

My wife motivated to get healthy, which clearly makes it easier for me to get back to focusing on health, a chance to really to a crack at it, to change the negative trajectory of the last few months, to eat well, to get back to running, to get back to the gym...

How Sir Leicester Dedlock is described, a description at first that didn't make much sense to me, but after learning more about him and upon reflection, I realize I have met many such people in my life recently.

Men around my age, but slightly older to a decade or two older, more successful than me, thus wealthier than me, much more hostile to communitarian sensibilities, redistributionist economics, and non-Christian religions than incompetence, dishonesty, and corruption...

Men I take direction from or collaborate with at work, or are parents of my kid's friends, thus men I have reasons to have friendly relationships with, to onlookers would be obvious we should, or at least could, be friends...

Men who say such obvious statements that I agree with but that most of the world doesn't understand, so it feels like we understand one another, but in the next breath say something so ignorant or uncaring or dumb, making me question my place in the world...

The mud and fog are bad, they stop seemingly everything else in its tracks, but even they are no match for the unstoppable destructive force of the Chancery Court.

That's the image of Victorian England to start the book; that and "fog everywhere."

Mud and fog, not this:

Right now my mud fog is health and money. Well, worrying about my health because I can't keep my diet and exercise on track, and therefore, have been gaining weight. And needing money so I keep keep working a stressful job.

I am sitting in a hotel room, my first night in this particular room, my third straight away from home, on a work trip of questionable importance, watching the World Cup on mute, listening to Mendelssohn and Chopin because that's what ChatGPT told me was likely the soundtrack of Victorian England, reading the "Author's Preface" and am introduced to this Shakespeare sonnet.

I spent most of the last two days introducing myself to people, making small talk, asking them questions about themselves, feigning extraversion and curiosity that's not really feigned anymore at this point in my life and career, more learned.

Dickens uses that sonnet to counter a Chancery judge's defense of the court. The Chancery court, I reckon I'll learn over the course of this book, is not, in fact, "almost immaculate" as the judge tells Dickens. But like the dyer's hands in the sonnet, the work must have changed the judge.

The career path I've embarked on for nearly two-and-a-half decades--not with intention, but opportunistically if I'm being charitable, haphazardly if I'm being honest--has certainly changed me.

And especially as of late due to the increased scope and responsibility and busyness and stress of my work, I've read for pleasure less and written even less so.