The risk of deafness from a flying spud
It’s dusk, or as I call it, time to write time. Get in my usual chair, arrange the foodstuffs (tonight, a grap of grapes), put the TV on to Tuesday comedy. That should be enough to get the wordflow primed.
My first visit to my son’s job didn’t involve him, exactly. I’d prepped a quick lunch pack, after I found a pair of pliers and opened the tin of mystery meat. Even threw in an apple, which I was warned that he wouldn’t eat. He didn’t… The plant smelled like potatoes. Raw, not cooked. Think of the bottom of the bag. I ignored the warning to wear protective headgear; the risk of deafness from a flying spud is low.
Today, we went to Canny Tire. Oh, sure, it was a trip to the city, but we “single stored” things. A chance to buy more gardening stuff (you can never have enough seeds, apparently). I purchased a hand spreader, in case I need to sow something that requires actual broadcast. Oh, and some dog treats that he isn’t really sure if he likes or not (based on brewers’s malt, apparently). That took us a lot longer than I would have expected; after a mid-afternoon food break, we needed to head home. Cuz, as they say, the day is just about done.
In the fast food restaurant, a gabble of educated girls. Education majors, to be precise. I am so far removed from their world. Can you say, like, like. A lot. I guess that proper grammar is no longer on the curriculum.
