And so birthday day dawned.
Mitch called round with a bottle of rum and an idea to have me develop thereby into a Hemingway-style writer. Interesting concept. I'll do the rest of this blip as Hemingway.
The day dawned cold and chill. In his bed, Ottawacker removed the cat from his pillow and felt the effects of last night's wine. He called for coffee.
His head pounded. His tongue was thick. He staggered from the room and moved to the toilet. "Where is everyone?" he wondered.
... it's going to take more work.
Anyway, Mitch came with me to take Ottawacker Jr. to his Sunday morning football, then came back for apéritifs.... The rest, I am sure, you can imagine.
Except for the ducks. We fed the ducks. That is hard to imagine. Especially the way we do it...