The body-in-the-barrel story is such a well-established trope because it happens in real life.

The culturally approved way to hide an inconvenient corpse in these parts is the family-size freezer; for disposal, it's a nice, big garbage bin from Canadian Tire. (Have I mentioned Canadian Tire lately? Hardly a week goes by without a visit.) Then you take a boat trip into the middle of Lake Ontario, and Bob's your parent's favourite sibling.

Chilly and damp in Stratford, true fall weather, with a distinct tang of pig poop in the air. Ah, country life.

Himself has toddled off to bail court to earn a crust, and I am bound for the gym. The kitchen still looks like a bombed-out bordello from yesterday, when I did zero tidying or washing-up, and I Do Not Care.

I'm gathering my energies for a cleaning assault on the refrigerator, in which a zucchini recently declined into desuetude and thereby tripped my personal grunge sensor. Tomorrow is soon enough for that, however. Or maybe Wednesday.