Fetching. Not the act of. . .but just finding something fetching. Hmmm.

What will an man do when he is surrounded by a mass of people half, to less than half, his age? He will feel old. Old in the sense of being alone. I am the Aged P--Wemmick's Aged P. Maybe I ought to get a cannon. Just for the ritual of age--shooting it each day.

Great. Expectations. . . ?

Now I am moved, yet I am still here. Sure, you can say then that I have not really moved at all but the odometer tells a different tale. There will be two more trips this week. That amounts to some 400 miles of not having really moved. Relocated. Yes I have already relocated. I suppose 400 miles added to the already accumulated total of 800 or so miles is plenty of movement. My head is stuck in a sort of anxious purgatory.

So the technology failings of one week past have reared their ugly head again. Now the desktop PC has decided that it does not want to ignite. I have trouble with the idea of planned obsolesence. It isn't like we are driving a domestic car. I expect soemthings to go haywire, but this PC has had a bad clutch and terminal transmission within seven days. Did we miss the oil changes?

Suddenly my delightful spouse finds that I will actually be gone. For her it may mean several things need immediate action. Step stool will be located. Angled garage parking. 5:15 a.m. will be a little earlier. Coffee will have to be made.
The iron will never be on. She can sleep sideways. Nobody to razz her about Literati.

Vacation days should be filled with golf. In fact, overflow with golf and sunshine. Today will.