Sunday is, of course, a day of rest. Achieved, in good celtic tradition, by going to church and drinking heavily (in that order, of course). This being Minnesota, I have lots of people to go to church for me, but it is not kind to delegate the other.
This is an extra day: I should be on my way to VA today; this is the last holiday weekend of summer, everyone will be static today, coming/going home tomorrow. I have decided, while everyone is at church, to wash the horses and instruct the servants. Rozzie is pleased to have his ears cleaned out and various bits and pieces of tackle fixed. Dulcie refuses to coome indoors and speak sensibly. She insists that she must breathe the outdoor air to commune with her muses: it's Sunday, I will be tollerant. But I get everything stowed, and everyone alert to the tasks of the next few days. Then I can rest.
Later that night, I find a nest of catholics to fall among, leading only the closest of relatives astray.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment