Thursday dawns cool and humid, but we have central heating and cooling, so who cares as long as there is coffee? So I pad on down to the studio with a handful of lemon cream cookies while balancing my cup to keep it from sloshing. I have grown very adept at that over the years.
The news is still a predictable spaghetti bowl of conflicting information on the virus. Never has the press been so irresponsible as it has in this instance. But my life changed very little out here on the Texas pampas in spite of the screaming of the Chicken Littles.
And the food fight between the press and Trump goes on. I think Trump is actually winning this one. In their effrontery they reveal more of their elitist disdain for conservatives than they would like the people to know, and it serves among most of us to let us know that the press hates conservatives. The liberals seem to think that the world is just fine if it wasn’t for that damned Fox News stirring up the peasants.
My brother and niece are still trapped here with Snooks and I. We are enjoying them though we have a tendency to treat them as hired help. I suspect they are getting antsy about going home, but they have kept that counsel to themselves.
And I still set and molder in my brand new $59 dollar executive chair. My $49 one bit the dust and was unceremoniously rolled out to the street for the trash man to haul off. Faux suede for my pampered bottom, padded armrests to sit back and ponder this miracle of miracles. A window into the world.
Behind me is a real window, and Kippur da bird lives in a cage to one side of it. Outside, three yellow feral cats reside. The pecan tree is in full leaf … the acacia tree has been hauled off, and a weedy front yard cries for some TLC. But all it will get is weed poison and a sharp mower blade. Some day.
So goes the rota of days. Coffee in the morning. Brunch. Dinner. Bedtime.