pedestrian
It is the small extraordinary things – the excitement of a new pair of pantaloons, the tragedy of a lost pair of gloves, the satisfaction of completing a fair copy to go to the publisher, the suggested tedium of training the maid to mark patterns – that stand out in reading Dorothy Wordsworth’s journals. Although there are headaches and stomachaches and unpleasant heat and cold; although there are unsatisfactory letters and distant friends; although there is not enough time to read and to stuff mattresses and to make the daily bread or pie or tart; although the largest star is always called Jupiter, whether it in fact be Jupiter or no; although the moon has set or risen; there is little occasion for hand-wringing, and there is always washing to hang out on the line and a pleasant walk in some evening ahead.