Donuel, I'm glad your retinas are okay. Even with migraine, you're a lucky guy.

We had a major dose of family duties over the weekend, and an attempted break-and-enter that resulted in a smashed panel in the back door.

The Guid Sisters (Himself's siblings) and their husbands were coming for lunch on Friday, and I cleaned and cooked all day Thursday in preparation. On Friday, only Sister Number 2 showed up (with husband) because Himself's elder brother-in-law had slipped and fallen at the car wash the day before and broke his collar-bone. BIL is nearly 80, so the emergency room staff put him through All The Hoops and, consequently, he and Sister Number One spent most of Thursday night at the hospital.

So, crap.

A good visit, followed by cleaning up (dishes, returning dining room table to normal configuration), took the rest of the day and then Himself and I spent the evening in front of Netflix watching
"The Irishman", otherwise known as "I Hear You Paint Houses". It's long, complicated and not exactly up-lifting, but it's truly great drama and more than worth seeing. It's years since I saw a film that engaged my attention so completely.

On Saturday, we went to Toronto to visit with Himself's brother. The weather was truly awful, with heavy rain and fog all day verging into sleet and snow at nightfall, so the drive was even more of a challenge than usual -- clenched-teeth level, just short of white-knuckle. We went out for lunch, hiking in driving rain for blocks and blocks up Roncesvalles Avenue so we arrived at the pub soaking wet from the knees down. Then the good part started: completely unexpected, an afternoon show by one of Canada's greatest fiddlers, Dan MacDonald, playing with an Irish singer-songwriter with such major chops as an accompanist that I could sit through his original songs without too much impatience. (Why do so many singer-songwriters have lousy diction? Just sayin'.)

We went home without incident despite the lousy highway conditions, and turned in early.

Shortly after ten o'clock, I was jolted out of deep sleep by a terrific bang and crack from downstairs and Himself bolting out of bed. Clad only in underpants, he ran toward the racket, flicking on lights and yelling at me to call the police. The noise was somebody kicking in our back door. The house-breaker took off when he saw the lights, and thank God for that; he was only one blow away from driving the dead-bolt right through the jamb.

So, hot and cold running cops for the next couple of hours. They even brought a dog to trail the burglar, but gave up when they found bicycle tracks in the snow.

Back to bed, but not much actual sleep took place. At eight o'clock I left a voice-mail message for Tony the Carpenter (veteran of the 2017 kitchen project), expecting him to get to me on Monday, but he responded immediately with shock and dismay, and arrived by ten-thirty -- on a Sunday morning! -- with a large hunk of three-quarter-inch plywood and a power drill. Then he measured up for a new door.

I never liked our back door, another with the thermal capabilities of newspaper, but I had not planned to replace it any time soon. That'll be another thousand bucks or so, plus Tony's labour. What larks.

Tony took a critical look at the cracked jamb and established that it was severely under-built and would never have stood up to even the most casual application of a wrecking bar. (Good thing our burglar came equipped only with boots.) The replacement door will be pre-hung in a frame that meets today's building code, and thus not entirely burglar-proof but considerably more effective than what we have now.

I spent all of Sunday in a comfy chair, alternately dozing and reading. Didn't even go to church.