House Of The Aptly Shambolic

Hail strike on windowpanes wakes us before the day has begun; one of those frustrating days where simple tasks are complex traps although no crockery slips off the draining board and tea is prepared in time and there are moments where rainbows loop themselves in cloud even if Dog sighs, disappointed in a shortened walk; my phone case is easily mended and Little Granddaughter says 'So'ry Nam-ma,' unasked, sincerely.

(So'ry being word ointment for situations in which, somehow, something is broken or food or beverage, somehow, makes contact with carpet.)

It feels colder than the gauge reports. The night sky is clear, in part; three quarters of a rotund moon exquisitely visible.
On the way home we stop to buy milk. Car park trees, shivery in the wind chill stand isolate, planted apace.
Home is warm, dishevelled; has a smell of coal smoke, wet dogs, boiled vegetables. It is, in short, a suitable mess.


I yam liking that picture of the mutant potato head.

It's inordinately chilly here, too. We've had a fire in the fireplace the past few nights, and I think we'll have one again tonight. This is supposed to be the sunny south, doggone it. Thankfully, the weather prognosticator is calling for temps back near seventy this weekend.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could all fix problems with a simple "sorry" as easily as our grandchildren can?

Happy weekend.
Lisa Southard said…
It's hard to say that the potato reminds me of you and make that a flattering thing, Susan- but there is an association there and it is a good thing. We are allegedly sunny south dwellers here but it just means the rain is a few degrees warmer.
We have much to learn from Grandchildren :-) xx

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