The moon is shining brightly through my window. This would be less peculiar if there weren't at least two foghorns bleating their sad calls. I was out earlier, and the fog was nearly as thick as the veritable split-pea soup. So why can I see the moon? This I do not know. As long as it keeps oil tankers off the bridge, I guess it's fine.
Meanwhile, The Yam is glaring balefully down from the kitchen window. The Yam is as large as a heart, and is similarly shaped. I do not like yams, Sam I am. I do not like them in a box, with a fox in wooly socks. Tomorrow I will dump the change jar on the floor and see if there are enough shiny silver things to buy a jar of chipotle powder. Then The Yam and I will do battle. I think the particular smoky heat of that chile will subdue The Yam. Then I will have lunch.
Meanwhile, the Dowager Princess has been acting almost kitten-like. I very neatly sorted the last three months of mail into organized stacks on the living room floor. Apparently this was an invitation to run around the room, hunch on a pile, use her feet to scrabble the pages in all directions and then run around again. Repeat with each pile. Attack individual pages on romps around the room.
I do not understand the antics of the cat, nor the antics of the fog.
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