The 12-hour Shift.
Good heavens, I made the daft judgment error of picking up Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything once again last night late while tucked in with a good snoot of the Very Special OP. I had just worked through a lengthy bit wherein Mr. Bryson treats us to stories of various Yellowstone night-time hikers who fall through the earth's crust into searing underground hot springs and are boiled alive, and I thought the coast might be clear for a while. Not so. He managed to sneak in another chapter about what would result if another meteorite--the type that have been hitting earth every so often for millions of years, apparently--were to strike today (extinction of all living species, of course). At any rate, I couldn't sleep for the thought of all that, especially his use of the phrase "long overdue," so I steadied myself with another finger or two of the VS and watched FoodTV stir into life. As Emeril sliced into a few ahi gems, who should stumble into the house but Lyle, with the bouquet of a long evening about him. So, the sun rose on a nerve-rattled yours truly and his acrid companion passing a bottle of something strong, brown and eventually friendly between them. I am not above such lows, but waking to find that it was 8pm just now has rather put me out. I suppose I ought to get some oil paints and spend a month or two in a field in Aix, far from Mr. Bryson and his overdue meteorites.