I do not live on an island. It feels a little like one, this messy house I occupy. I need to get out, but I’m sick, which apparently happens about once every 56 weeks at this stage of my life. I really shouldn’t put this out because everyone has an opinion, and their diagnoses are scary. I’ve had a flu shot, a month or so back, and I’ve no urge to boogie-woogie. If it’s pneumonia, it’s not the rockin’ kind. What I have causes me to sneeze, wheeze, cough and, while sleeping, toss and turn. I’ve contracted a medley of songs.
By the time you read this, I hope to be well. I’ve no desire to give the crud to loved ones at Christmas.
This present arrived on Monday morning. The descent was such that, on Tuesday morning, I showed my face at a City Council meeting, and on Tuesday night, reached the parking lot only to deem myself unfit to see another one in another town. I took the caution flag, pulled down pit road, the boys raised the hood, and one of them said “no can do, boss.”