That’s Not a Bowling Ball, That’s the Thuringian Dressmaker
Ye Gods. I’m connected by wifi in a Starbuck’s coffee shop on Queen Anne hill. My return to earth was disconcerting; as I splashed down in Puget Sound I remember thinking these alien beings are rather reckless about reentry. They shoved me out of the door of their craft without so much as a by your leave. One wonders if the Thuringian Dressmaker didn’t suffer a similar fate, hurtling through space before being impaled on my fence. It’s a new theory of the crime, one I’m sending to the Dutchess for her critique this very night. Meanwhile, I’m established at an adequate if unspectacular hotel. They asked if I required turn down service and I said, no, I’m a writer, you see, I get turned down all the time. Ha! Mr. Prawns smashed me on the back when he heard that one, hale fellow that he is. I quite enjoyed Norway Night at the Ballard VFW. We ate fish and drank beer and danced colorful Norwegian dirges and polkas. Later, we wept.
Mr. Prawns was distraught about the Monday Night Football outcome. “Those aren’t the Patriots,” he confided. I’ll have to check with the Dowager Princess of Bavaria as to what a three deep zone might be; she blogs the NFL. Well, my soy and wheat germ no foam latte appears to be ready. Did I order decaf? I miss having my staff available for these sorts of questions, not that Haskell or Depew could be trusted to caf or decaf as the case may be. I’ll say yes, thus securing my wifi sans tariff as it were. YHS, The Earl.