Sweethearts, you think I am low on the ground? I AM FLATTENED. Finito. Basta. Ende. You name it as long as there an end to it. A hedgehog crossing a busy road has nothing on me.
Let’s apply a bit of American speak: I am “challenged”. Which I’d normally welcome but not with my comp crashing every seven minutes. It’s difficult to think when rushed.
The Angel put his friendly face round the door the other day, looked at me, shook his Viking head, complete with long locks, and said “Mama. The Keyboard Warrior”. The Keyboard Warrior. I should be so lucky. Win a battle, try and invade Russia (in winter). You may lose the war. At the moment there is a truce. Kissinger notwithstanding. Never mind Hillary’s emails being made available for public consumption. I can’t send any. As to playing cards: Trump ain’t ace.
Never mind fracking. Let the best woman win. And it’s only March. Ides of.
Upshot being that the only reason I don’t wish I were still five because then the Angel wouldn’t exist. Logistically, biologically impossible. So I am what I am. And what I am is both totally happy and totally disenchanted. If anyone had forecast this x years ago I’d told them to go away and revisit me in x years. Well. You can beat the hell out of an optimist (physically) but you can’t darken my sun.
Other than that: Everything is fine.
Hugs and kisses,