Lawrence the Lean

It's eight thousand miles to Arabia. We've got beer, soda, wine, popcorn and olives. It's broad daylight, and we're wearing T-shirts*.


*Karen is wearing desert shades, for general relevance; I am wearing black, for Omar relevance. Between us, we are iconic. Do I hear a Maurice Jarre?

Is it still news, if it comes from far afield and long ago, and with an intermission?

Lawrence has taken Aqaba! Everyone is very happy! Lemonade and bedsheets all around!

(also olives, salami, padron peppers, tomatoes, crackers, brie and wine)

Fahrenheit Ouchie

You know that thing where you use a stovetop pan to finish something off in the oven, because you can, because everything about it is metal or otherwise ovenproof? And then when you take it out of the oven you take off the oven-glove because you need to test the foodstuff, and then you forget completely and pick the pan up by its oven-hot handle in your bare fingers...?

Yeah, well. That. I may have spent all evening with my hand in ice water. Still. I no longer think any of the fingers are actually going to fall off. But ouchie. That really was a bad idea.