Ah, I was wondering where the recovery ward wandered off to. I've been dazedly bouncing (slowly) off walls (mostly garden walls), chomping on clonazapam (so Curmudgeon won't say "Did you take your pill?!?") and swilling Tirconnell.

Let me just curl up here in the wingchair by the fire with a couple cats in my lap and one on my, uh, "shelf". (Oh, and here comes another over the back of the chair to wrap himself around my neck -- famous trained cat scarf.) Sigh. That feels good. What am I sipping? Someone once said you're never too old for cookies and milk even if it does turn into gin and tonic (or Lagavulan and lokoumi).

I'm taaaaahred. Just nudge me if I doze off. (And please don't let me drool.)

Then again, some of that lobster stew might be nice and comforting -- big chunks of tail and claw meat? Not just stuff picked from body? Ummmm . . . now THAT's comfort.

How long can I hide here?

And talking about gardens is nice, but mine's being a tyrant. Things are walking all over the place and I have to herd them back into their pens, I mean, beds. And the goat's beard needs to be moved a looooong way away from the hostas in the turnaround. Maybe turn them into a "hedge" along the side of the way back raised bed garden. Mostly everything needs to be moved somewhere else. But there I go, talking about work again.

I'm just going to sit here and dunk heavily buttered rolls into my lobster stew and listen to the music on the other side of the room. Oh, and keep the cats' paws and tongues out of my stew . . .

Linn