We’re all on the mend here after a few days of moderate (though merely annoying) head-colds, one of the souvenirs we brought back from Portland. (Alice will likely feel guilty ’cause I wrote that, but after her generous hospitality the least we could do is take some germs off her hands.) As far as Claire’s first illness, she got off fairly easy with only a slight cough and a couple interrupted nights of sleep.
Despite a bit of a sore throat, I played my hero card and went and did the St. Patrick’s Day five kilometer run down in the river valley. I’ll blame the cold (head and weather) if readers are unimpressed by my time, but I edged a hair over thirty minutes in the renewed (and surprising) sub-zero temperatures that arrived overnight. I’m now officially done the clinic — and sore.
I could also blame my malaise on the busy few days of shuffling furniture and general busy-ness we’ve had over the weekend. Rather than resting (as good little sickies should) we opted to do some cooking, baking, and shopping. And then I stayed up relatively late to finish reading “The Golden Compass” which I’d been picking through for a week or so. It’s worth the effort if you haven’t read it yet. And anyone who has blindly critiqued the book in recent months either (a) never read it (as is often the case with people who like to blindly ban books) or (b) read it prejudiced looking for evidence of implied meanings they had been told were tucked elegantly between the lines. Simply, it makes one think and works to blur the line between good and evil — but then I suppose some people don’t encourage that kids should experience either. Shame.
I was a little tired after my run this morning so I stopped at Tim Horton’s for my annual gambling fix, buying a single large cup of coffee with a (losing) entry in the roll up the rim contest. Thus the photo for the day is Claire playing with the empty (and washed for you fussypots out there) cup. Empty cups: best toys ever. Just so you know.
Traditionally (or for five years or so, at least) we’ve actively disliked the seventeenth of March (a.k.a. Saint Paddy’s Day) if for no other reason than in or around 2003 we were robbed on that particular day. Nothing against the occasion at all (heck I’m apparently a quarter-ish Irish me-self) but it tends to bring to the surface those negative memories. I’ve decided, however, that moping on the topic about for five years or so is quite long enough and as of tomorrow it will merely be an interesting historical footnote and not a factor of influence in our lives. So, I’m going to see if I can hunt down a beer of some persuasion tomorrow — perhaps even a Guinness. Cheers!
And speaking of holidays, its that time of lunar significance whence the celestial orbs align and tell us that we are supposed to be bending our minds to religious-type things. In fact, with the upcoming holiday, my weeks are starting to become fairly shortened and scattered. Four days on, four days off, four days on. That type of thing. I think if I can encourage the snow to melt again, I might be able to start thinking about gardening again. Or writing. This year I think we’re just hanging out at home. If anyone wants to hang, let us know.
Uh, backspace… Writing? On that particular topic, those whose eyes wander to the top bar of this site are often reminded that this is “year of the short story” — and maybe are not quite sure what that means. It means that I am trying to write four. I have one very well entrenched. And I am happy with the progress. Though a four day weekend might help that process progress a little faster.
Wishful thinking, perhaps. The only distraction might be some new DVD acquisitions. I have been picking my way through “Firefly” since obtaining a ridiculously discounted copy a week or two back. I thought I’d seen more, but I suppose catching the odd re-run exaggerated my memories. And as I clean house on that series, the third season of Battlestar is being released in just a couple days. Pop some corn ’cause I’m going to be out of touch for a while.
Does that answer your questions? Oh.