I was watching the news on TV; Peter Mansbridge was being surprisingly patient and respectful with Newt Gingrich as he interviewed the man, a Trump supporter, and later Bill Maher made me shriek in delight with his skilful excoriation of the circus that is the runup to the U.S. election.
Once he was scrubbed fresh like an oversized pink baby, Scott didn't manage to sit up with me for long.
"It's Friday night!" I exclaimed, with a brief burst of the excitement — the freedom to stay up late — that still accompanies the beginning of a weekend. "I forgot!"
"That's what it's like when you're a lady of leisure," he said drolly, "with nothing to do, day after day."
It surely must look that way, especially in comparison to the efforts of a person who lives a life of constant labour that would probably put me in a wheelchair. He was only teasing, for when he looked around he might notice the house is tidy, the dishes and laundry are done, and someone (a kitchen elf?) must have stood at the cupboard for more than a millisecond preparing the grilled potatoes, onions and carrots he was consuming alongside his pork roast. Just a few of the little perks of having a spouse at home with "nothing to do" all day.
Then again, these things happen all by themselves or are done instantly with but a snap of the fingers, and are of little importance in the grand scheme of life. Right? There certainly doesn't seem to be a realistic notion in our society of the actual time it takes, daily, to make and keep our private nests pleasant to relax in at the end of a long, hard day. Me, I think it matters. Many don't appear to value such comforts, while me, I figure if we don't have that, what are we working for?
|The last leg of the route to 15, a quarter-section about 10 minutes from GGFarm, is a dirt road against these trees.|