I regret to inform you that the following writeup contains no depression at all. Nothing morose and downbeat. Not a she-left-me-and-I'm-heartbroken plaint. No lost loves, dead friends, or tragic losses. If you want angst, go someplace else.

Let me tell you about a near-perfect day....

Quick background:

As I noted in a recent daylog (February 9, 2001), I've just changed jobs, going from a boring no-brainer job at a newspaper to a new job as a research assistant to one of the lectors at the University of Copenhagen. Well, after a week of tying up loose ends, I ended my old job and started my new one, this past Monday.

My new job is at irregular hours, whenever I want it. I have a few meetings with my employer during the week, but apart from that, I'm on my own. Most of the time, I work at home, or do research at the University library. In short, it suits my lifestyle perfectly.

But the best part of it - the very best part - is that I am doing real professional historical research for the first time in my career. I'm getting paid for doing something that I'd really, gladly do for free.

Oh, yes...I promised you a "near-perfect day"...well, here goes:

Up bright and early (6:30 AM), in order to send the kids and my fiancée off. Early enough that there is plenty of time to spend lingering over coffee and the morning paper, and to let the kids wake up slowly and gently.

Next, follow my eldest son to kindergarten, again taking plenty of time to play with LEGO and generally give him a good start to his day.

Back to the apartment, another pot of coffee on the percolator, and dive into the numbers.

Three hours later, I surface again - having uncovered several previously unsuspected facts concerning the Danish Smallholder Party's election results in the local elections of 1953, and the level of party organisation. (Mental note: I must remember to node this subject someday). For bonus points, I have also uncovered a statistical probability that the membership figures of the local party organisations have been "prettied-up" (there is a suspicious number of local groups with membership figures that appear to have been rounded off, making their validity as data suspect). I'll have to speak with my employer about this - could turn out to be important.

I'm a scholiopath (I haven't noded this yet - but I define this as someone who takes scholarship to pathological extremes), so this sort of thing is like hog heaven for me.

More coffee, more number crunching, and a growing familiarity with the more obscure boroughs of mid-20th century Danish political/administrative structure. Could be mistaken for dry stuff, but it isn't.

Around 3 PM, I go back to the kindergarten, pick up my eldest son, and take him to the public bath for a swimming lesson in the pools. On the way home, I buy him a hot dog (it being a matter of tradition that after his weekly swimming lessons, he gets to skip a balanced meal in favour of junk food) and later, I read Hal Foster's "Prince Valiant" to him until he's ready for bed.

An hour of vegetating in front of the boob tube, and its playtime for me. Log on and kick some alien arse in Stellar Crisis, then random surfing on E2.

Yes, I'd call that a near-perfect day.

Okay, so it wasn't perfect:

I didn't win a fortune in the lottery. I didn't discover a cure for cancer or the common cold. My knee still hurts from having strained it lifting weights yesterday.

On the other hand, my eldest son kissed me good-night and told me he loved me....and my youngest son said "ball" today.

Yep, that will do, until "perfect" comes along.