We’ve had the traditional Drunken Lighting of the Lame-o Indoor Fireworks that signals the end of festivities. We didn’t quite set the flat on fire. Oh, well. There’s always next year.
Tonight, we drive up to London (no matter which direction you’re coming from, the it’s always “up to London” — though we will, in fact, head North to get there). Tomorrow, it’s Heathrow. Tomorrow night — very late — Boston. This’ll be the first time I’ve come back on a Friday, with two whole days to recover before going in to work.
Yeah, I’m at the “count your sad, stupid, worthless little blessings” stage of grief.
The usual injunctions apply: if the jihadis get me, seek wildly disproportionate revenge in my name, blah blah blah. You know the drill. With any luck, I’ll meet you back here Saturday for “Precious Objects My Cats Have Crapped On — Part I.”