It’s 2:30 in the morning.

She has perfect pink pads.

She has perfect pink pads.

So Edna is telling me to stop basking in self pity. But if I don’t pity me there’s no one else who will shoulder that burden. I can tell you that from six decades of bitter experience.

Oh well. We’re both up in the middle of the night because we’re worrying about someone else. We don’t usually have to, but right now we do.

Problem is, when you’re in big time worry mode, you want to think about something, anything else. But we’re at an impasse. When my wife gets up in the middle of the night she likes to watch Inspector Morse. I, on the other hand, hate that daft old bugger. Kind of like me without a sense of humor. The only thing on TV-type TV at this hour is low budget Canadian shows. What you get when you’re a cable network with a late night budget of $10 an hour.

The coffee tastes good. My wife has a lovely smile. Neither of us has a prescription for those mucho advertised designer drugs that have ten times more fatal side effects than benefits. So, all in all, We’re good here, thank you very much. Raebert is groaning though. He thinks night time is for sleeping. But what does he know? He’s just a deerhound.

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