Let's creep away from the day, for the party's over now...

[desperance]

Apparently there comes a time when we have to stop frolicking and face the stern world again. Who knew?

Apparently that time is not exactly and precisely now; it's Sunday here, and Katherine and Dave just delivered the Cake That Dare Not Speak Its Name, the Cake in the Iron Mask Tupperware Container, which is apparently so ultimately chocolate that Mac will simply expire from delirium if we so much as lift the lid*; and that's for tomorrow, for the yogis, so.

But still, the principle should be acknowledged, I guess, that party season is closing down and Serious Stuff ensues. Hey-ho. Maybe I'll have another cup of coffee and go for a walk. The weather continues abidingly obligingly gorgeous, even though I'm fifty-five.


*I just intercepted him with a stolen chocolate liqueur in his mouth, I am just sayin'.

Comments

[flick]

The weather continues abidingly obligingly gorgeous

Mutter.

[wordweaverlynn]

Ah, I see you are also vintage 1959. It's been a long strange trip, hasn't it?

[desperance]

Ooh, it so has. Not so obviously radical as my grandfather's, perhaps - he was born in 1892, grew up in rural Kent and never saw a motorcar; fifteen years before he died, we were walking on the moon - but possibly an even deeper shift, from the mechanical to the virtual. I do find it fascinating. Also, dammit, I want a time machine. I want to see where we go next.