Floored And Troubled

      My apologies again-- no time today to really update this blog, or even to begin to answer my email, now as backed up as Wilford Brimley without his Quaker oatmeal. Before you start thinking me an excuse-maker of Republican proportions, let me just say that I'm positively knackered. Today was spent entirely redoing the kitchen floor-- ripping up the old, putting in the new, and all the extant stuff that had to be done to enable those blasted things. It was a noisy, dusty, exhausting day, soundtracked, alas by the shrieks and peals of a radial arm-saw, noises which make those painful fingernail-on-blackboard sounds seem absolutely melodic by comparison. All this, of course, had to happen on the first day in at least a week in which the sky was (almost) blue in dark little corner of southern Ontario, as if to emphasize the shame of a good day lost. But, thank goodness, it's all done now-- except for putting the kitchen back together again, a task for tomorrow and most-certainly one on par with putting Humpty Dumpty back together again.

       The only one, of course, who seemed to have an easy day of it today was Trouble, who managed to hide away from everything in a fashion that made me rather envious indeed. As you can see, he was a little purturbed by the commotion, but not enough to go retreating into a closet or some deep, dark cubbyhole. It must be nice to be a cat. Adorable little bastard.

      Now I must shower and go out and drink until I no longer feel pain. Or feel, period. With my luck, tonight will turn out to be one of those nights I won't be able to get a buzz no matter how much I drink. At the very least, I won't be having to endure those horrible shrieks for a bit. Unless, of course--- well, I won't finish that sentence. One has to be something resembling a gentleman. Even if, these days, that seems to mark one as an anachronism. It's time to go get really floored. Don Henley was right: I haven't been drinkin' enough. Cheers.